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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5986-0.txt b/5986-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6db3474 --- /dev/null +++ b/5986-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5674 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Clara Hopgood, by Mark Rutherford + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Clara Hopgood + + +Author: Mark Rutherford + + + +Release Date: July 15, 2014 [eBook #5986] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARA HOPGOOD*** + + +Transcribed from the 1907 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + CLARA HOPGOOD + + + BY + MARK RUTHERFORD + + EDITED BY HIS FRIEND + REUBEN SHAPCOTT + + * * * * * + + _THIRD IMPRESSION_ + + * * * * * + + LONDON + T. FISHER UNWIN + ADELPHI TERRACE + +_First Edition_ _March_ 1896 +_Second Impression_ _June_ 1896 +_Third Impression_ _July_ 1907 + + * * * * * + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +ABOUT ten miles north-east of Eastthorpe lies the town of Fenmarket, very +like Eastthorpe generally; and as we are already familiar with +Eastthorpe, a particular description of Fenmarket is unnecessary. There +is, however, one marked difference between them. Eastthorpe, it will be +remembered, is on the border between the low uplands and the Fens, and +has one side open to soft, swelling hills. Fenmarket is entirely in the +Fens, and all the roads that lead out of it are alike level, monotonous, +straight, and flanked by deep and stagnant ditches. The river, also, +here is broader and slower; more reluctant than it is even at Eastthorpe +to hasten its journey to the inevitable sea. During the greater part of +the year the visitor to Fenmarket would perhaps find it dull and +depressing, and at times, under a grey, wintry sky, almost unendurable; +but nevertheless, for days and weeks it has a charm possessed by few +other landscapes in England, provided only that behind the eye which +looks there is something to which a landscape of that peculiar character +answers. There is, for example, the wide, dome-like expanse of the sky, +there is the distance, there is the freedom and there are the stars on a +clear night. The orderly, geometrical march of the constellations from +the extreme eastern horizon across the meridian and down to the west has +a solemn majesty, which is only partially discernible when their course +is interrupted by broken country. + +On a dark afternoon in November 1844, two young women, Clara and Madge +Hopgood, were playing chess in the back parlour of their mother’s house +at Fenmarket, just before tea. Clara, the elder, was about +five-and-twenty, fair, with rather light hair worn flat at the side of +her face, after the fashion of that time. Her features were tolerably +regular. It is true they were somewhat marred by an uneven nasal +outline, but this was redeemed by the curved lips of a mouth which was +small and rather compressed, and by a definite, symmetrical and graceful +figure. Her eyes were grey, with a curious peculiarity in them. +Ordinarily they were steady, strong eyes, excellent and renowned optical +instruments. Over and over again she had detected, along the stretch of +the Eastthorpe road, approaching visitors, and had named them when her +companions could see nothing but specks. Occasionally, however, these +steady, strong, grey eyes utterly changed. They were the same eyes, the +same colour, but they ceased to be mere optical instruments and became +instruments of expression, transmissive of radiance to such a degree that +the light which was reflected from them seemed insufficient to account +for it. It was also curious that this change, though it must have been +accompanied by some emotion, was just as often not attended by any other +sign of it. Clara was, in fact, little given to any display of feeling. + +Madge, four years younger than her sister, was of a different type +altogether, and one more easily comprehended. She had very heavy dark +hair, and she had blue eyes, a combination which fascinated Fenmarket. +Fenmarket admired Madge more than it was admired by her in return, and +she kept herself very much to herself, notwithstanding what it considered +to be its temptations. If she went shopping she nearly always went with +her sister; she stood aloof from all the small gaieties of the town; +walked swiftly through its streets, and repelled, frigidly and +decisively, all offers, and they were not a few, which had been made to +her by the sons of the Fenmarket tradesfolk. Fenmarket pronounced her +‘stuck-up,’ and having thus labelled her, considered it had exhausted +her. The very important question, Whether there was anything which +naturally stuck up? Fenmarket never asked. It was a great relief to +that provincial little town in 1844, in this and in other cases, to find +a word which released it from further mental effort and put out of sight +any troublesome, straggling, indefinable qualities which it would +otherwise have been forced to examine and name. Madge was certainly +stuck-up, but the projection above those around her was not artificial. +Both she and her sister found the ways of Fenmarket were not to their +taste. The reason lay partly in their nature and partly in their +history. + +Mrs Hopgood was the widow of the late manager in the Fenmarket branch of +the bank of Rumbold, Martin & Rumbold, and when her husband died she had +of course to leave the Bank Buildings. As her income was somewhat +straitened, she was obliged to take a small house, and she was now living +next door to the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ the principal inn in the town. +There was then no fringe of villas to Fenmarket for retired quality; the +private houses and shops were all mixed together, and Mrs Hopgood’s +cottage was squeezed in between the ironmonger’s and the inn. It was +very much lower than either of its big neighbours, but it had a brass +knocker and a bell, and distinctly asserted and maintained a kind of +aristocratic superiority. + +Mr Hopgood was not a Fenmarket man. He came straight from London to be +manager. He was in the bank of the London agents of Rumbold, Martin & +Rumbold, and had been strongly recommended by the city firm as just the +person to take charge of a branch which needed thorough reorganisation. +He succeeded, and nobody in Fenmarket was more respected. He lived, +however, a life apart from his neighbours, excepting so far as business +was concerned. He went to church once on Sunday because the bank +expected him to go, but only once, and had nothing to do with any of its +dependent institutions. He was a great botanist, very fond of walking, +and in the evening, when Fenmarket generally gathered itself into groups +for gossip, either in the street or in back parlours, or in the ‘Crown +and Sceptre,’ Mr Hopgood, tall, lean and stately, might be seen wandering +along the solitary roads searching for flowers, which, in that part of +the world, were rather scarce. He was also a great reader of the best +books, English, German and French, and held high doctrine, very high for +those days, on the training of girls, maintaining that they need, even +more than boys, exact discipline and knowledge. Boys, he thought, find +health in an occupation; but an uncultivated, unmarried girl dwells with +her own untutored thoughts, which often breed disease. His two +daughters, therefore, received an education much above that which was +usual amongst people in their position, and each of them—an unheard of +wonder in Fenmarket—had spent some time in a school in Weimar. Mr +Hopgood was also peculiar in his way of dealing with his children. He +talked to them and made them talk to him, and whatever they read was +translated into speech; thought, in his house, was vocal. + +Mrs Hopgood, too, had been the intimate friend of her husband, and was +the intimate friend of her daughters. She was now nearly sixty, but +still erect and graceful, and everybody could see that the picture of a +beautiful girl of one-and-twenty, which hung opposite the fireplace, had +once been her portrait. She had been brought up, as thoroughly as a +woman could be brought up, in those days, to be a governess. The war +prevented her education abroad, but her father, who was a clergyman, not +too rich, engaged a French emigrant lady to live in his house to teach +her French and other accomplishments. She consequently spoke French +perfectly, and she could also read and speak Spanish fairly well, for the +French lady had spent some years in Spain. Mr Hopgood had never been +particularly in earnest about religion, but his wife was a believer, +neither High Church nor Low Church, but inclined towards a kind of +quietism not uncommon in the Church of England, even during its bad time, +a reaction against the formalism which generally prevailed. When she +married, Mrs Hopgood did not altogether follow her husband. She never +separated herself from her faith, and never would have confessed that she +had separated herself from her church. But although she knew that his +creed externally was not hers, her own was not sharply cut, and she +persuaded herself that, in substance, his and her belief were identical. +As she grew older her relationship to the Unseen became more and more +intimate, but she was less and less inclined to criticise her husband’s +freedom, or to impose on the children a rule which they would certainly +have observed, but only for her sake. Every now and then she felt a +little lonely; when, for example, she read one or two books which were +particularly her own; when she thought of her dead father and mother, and +when she prayed her solitary prayer. Mr Hopgood took great pains never +to disturb that sacred moment. Indeed, he never for an instant permitted +a finger to be laid upon what she considered precious. He loved her +because she had the strength to be what she was when he first knew her +and she had so fascinated him. He would have been disappointed if the +mistress of his youth had become some other person, although the change, +in a sense, might have been development and progress. He did really love +her piety, too, for its own sake. It mixed something with her behaviour +to him and to the children which charmed him, and he did not know from +what other existing source anything comparable to it could be supplied. +Mrs Hopgood seldom went to church. The church, to be sure, was horribly +dead, but she did not give that as a reason. She had, she said, an +infirmity, a strange restlessness which prevented her from sitting still +for an hour. She often pleaded this excuse, and her husband and +daughters never, by word or smile, gave her the least reason to suppose +that they did not believe her. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +BOTH Clara and Madge went first to an English day-school, and Clara went +straight from this school to Germany, but Madge’s course was a little +different. She was not very well, and it was decided that she should +have at least a twelvemonth in a boarding-school at Brighton before going +abroad. It had been very highly recommended, but the head-mistress was +Low Church and aggressive. Mr Hopgood, far away from the High and Low +Church controversy, came to the conclusion that, in Madge’s case, the +theology would have no effect on her. It was quite impossible, moreover, +to find a school which would be just what he could wish it to be. Madge, +accordingly, was sent to Brighton, and was introduced into a new world. +She was just beginning to ask herself _why_ certain things were right and +other things were wrong, and the Brighton answer was that the former were +directed by revelation and the latter forbidden, and that the ‘body’ was +an affliction to the soul, a means of ‘probation,’ our principal duty +being to ‘war’ against it. + +Madge’s bedroom companion was a Miss Selina Fish, daughter of Barnabas +Fish, Esquire, of Clapham, and merchant of the City of London. Miss Fish +was not traitorous at heart, but when she found out that Madge had not +been christened, she was so overcome that she was obliged to tell her +mother. Miss Fish was really unhappy, and one cold night, when Madge +crept into her neighbour’s bed, contrary to law, but in accordance with +custom when the weather was very bitter, poor Miss Fish shrank from her, +half-believing that something dreadful might happen if she should by any +chance touch unbaptised, naked flesh. Mrs Fish told her daughter that +perhaps Miss Hopgood might be a Dissenter, and that although Dissenters +were to be pitied, and even to be condemned, many of them were +undoubtedly among the redeemed, as for example, that man of God, Dr +Doddridge, whose _Family Expositor_ was read systematically at home, as +Selina knew. Then there were Matthew Henry, whose commentary her father +preferred to any other, and the venerable saint, the Reverend William Jay +of Bath, whom she was proud to call her friend. Miss Fish, therefore, +made further inquiries gently and delicately, but she found to her horror +that Madge had neither been sprinkled nor immersed! Perhaps she was a +Jewess or a heathen! This was a happy thought, for then she might be +converted. Selina knew what interest her mother took in missions to +heathens and Jews; and if Madge, by the humble instrumentality of a +child, could be brought to the foot of the Cross, what would her mother +and father say? What would they not say? Fancy taking Madge to Clapham +in a nice white dress—it should be white, thought Selina—and presenting +her as a saved lamb! + +The very next night she began,— + +‘I suppose your father is a foreigner?’ + +‘No, he is an Englishman.’ + +‘But if he is an Englishman you must have been baptised, or sprinkled, or +immersed, and your father and mother must belong to church or chapel. I +know there are thousands of wicked people who belong to neither, but they +are drunkards and liars and robbers, and even they have their children +christened.’ + +‘Well, he is an Englishman,’ said Madge, smiling. + +‘Perhaps,’ said Selina, timidly, ‘he may be—he may be—Jewish. Mamma and +papa pray for the Jews every morning. They are not like other +unbelievers.’ + +‘No, he is certainly not a Jew.’ + +‘What is he, then?’ + +‘He is my papa and a very honest, good man.’ + +‘Oh, my dear Madge! honesty is a broken reed. I have heard mamma say +that she is more hopeful of thieves than honest people who think they are +saved by works, for the thief who was crucified went to heaven, and if he +had been only an honest man he never would have found the Saviour and +would have gone to hell. Your father must be something.’ + +‘I can only tell you again that he is honest and good.’ + +Selina was confounded. She had heard of those people who were _nothing_, +and had always considered them as so dreadful that she could not bear to +think of them. The efforts of her father and mother did not extend to +them; they were beyond the reach of the preacher—mere vessels of wrath. +If Madge had confessed herself Roman Catholic, or idolator, Selina knew +how to begin. She would have pointed out to the Catholic how +unscriptural it was to suppose that anybody could forgive sins excepting +God, and she would at once have been able to bring the idolator to his +knees by exposing the absurdity of worshipping bits of wood and stone; +but with a person who was nothing she could not tell what to do. She was +puzzled to understand what right Madge had to her name. Who had any +authority to say she was to be called Madge Hopgood? She determined at +last to pray to God and again ask her mother’s help. + +She did pray earnestly that very night, and had not finished until long +after Madge had said her Lord’s Prayer. This was always said night and +morning, both by Madge and Clara. They had been taught it by their +mother. It was, by the way, one of poor Selina’s troubles that Madge +said nothing but the Lord’s Prayer when she lay down and when she rose; +of course, the Lord’s Prayer was the best—how could it be otherwise, +seeing that our Lord used it?—but those who supplemented it with no +petitions of their own were set down as formalists, and it was always +suspected that they had not received the true enlightenment from above. +Selina cried to God till the counterpane was wet with her tears, but it +was the answer from her mother which came first, telling her that however +praiseworthy her intentions might be, argument with such a _dangerous_ +infidel as Madge would be most perilous, and she was to desist from it at +once. Mrs Fish had by that post written to Miss Pratt, the +schoolmistress, and Selina no doubt would not be exposed to further +temptation. Mrs Fish’s letter to Miss Pratt was very strong, and did not +mince matters. She informed Miss Pratt that a wolf was in her fold, and +that if the creature were not promptly expelled, Selina must be removed +into safety. Miss Pratt was astonished, and instantly, as her custom +was, sought the advice of her sister, Miss Hannah Pratt, who had charge +of the wardrobes and household matters generally. Miss Hannah Pratt was +never in the best of tempers, and just now was a little worse than usual. +It was one of the rules of the school that no tradesmen’s daughters +should be admitted, but it was very difficult to draw the line, and when +drawn, the Misses Pratt were obliged to admit it was rather ridiculous. +There was much debate over an application by an auctioneer. He was +clearly not a tradesman, but he sold chairs, tables and pigs, and, as +Miss Hannah said, used vulgar language in recommending them. However, +his wife had money; they lived in a pleasant house in Lewes, and the line +went outside him. But when a druggist, with a shop in Bond Street, +proposed his daughter, Miss Hannah took a firm stand. What is the use of +a principle, she inquired severely, if we do not adhere to it? On the +other hand, the druggist’s daughter was the eldest of six, who might all +come when they were old enough to leave home, and Miss Pratt thought +there was a real difference between a druggist and, say, a bootmaker. + +‘Bootmaker!’ said Miss Hannah with great scorn. ‘I am surprised that you +venture to hint the remotest possibility of such a contingency.’ + +At last it was settled that the line should also be drawn outside the +druggist. Miss Hannah, however, had her revenge. A tanner in Bermondsey +with a house in Bedford Square, had sent two of his children to Miss +Pratt’s seminary. Their mother found out that they had struck up a +friendship with a young person whose father compounded prescriptions for +her, and when she next visited Brighton she called on Miss Pratt, +reminded her that it was understood that her pupils would ‘all be taken +from a superior class in society,’ and gently hinted that she could not +allow Bedford Square to be contaminated by Bond Street. Miss Pratt was +most apologetic, enlarged upon the druggist’s respectability, and more +particularly upon his well-known piety and upon his generous +contributions to the cause of religion. This, indeed, was what decided +her to make an exception in his favour, and the piety also of his +daughter was ‘most exemplary.’ However, the tanner’s lady, although a +shining light in the church herself, was not satisfied that a retail +saint could produce a proper companion for her own offspring, and went +away leaving Miss Pratt very uncomfortable. + +‘I warned you,’ said Miss Hannah; ‘I told you what would happen, and as +to Mr Hopgood, I suspected him from the first. Besides, he is only a +banker’s clerk.’ + +‘Well, what is to be done?’ + +‘Put your foot down at once.’ Miss Hannah suited the action to the word, +and put down, with emphasis, on the hearthrug a very large, plate-shaped +foot cased in a black felt shoe. + +‘But I cannot dismiss them. Don’t you think it will be better, first of +all, to talk to Miss Hopgood? Perhaps we could do her some good.’ + +‘Good! Now, do you think we can do any good to an atheist? Besides, we +have to consider our reputation. Whatever good we might do, it would be +believed that the infection remained.’ + +‘We have no excuse for dismissing the other.’ + +‘Excuse! none is needed, nor would any be justifiable. Excuses are +immoral. Say at once—of course politely and with regret—that the school +is established on a certain basis. It will be an advantage to us if it +is known why these girls do not remain. I will dictate the letter, if +you like.’ + +Miss Hannah Pratt had not received the education which had been given to +her younger sister, and therefore, was nominally subordinate, but really +she was chief. She considered it especially her duty not only to look +after the children’s clothes, the servants and the accounts, but to +maintain _tone_ everywhere in the establishment, and to stiffen her +sister when necessary, and preserve in proper sharpness her orthodoxy, +both in theology and morals. + +Accordingly, both the girls left, and both knew the reason for leaving. +The druggist’s faith was sorely tried. If Miss Pratt’s had been a +worldly seminary he would have thought nothing of such behaviour, but he +did not expect it from one of the faithful. The next Sunday morning +after he received the news, he stayed at home out of his turn to make up +any medicines which might be urgently required, and sent his assistant to +church. + +As to Madge, she enjoyed her expulsion as a great joke, and her Brighton +experiences were the cause of much laughter. She had learned a good deal +while she was away from home, not precisely what it was intended she +should learn, and she came back with a strong, insurgent tendency, which +was even more noticeable when she returned from Germany. Neither of the +sisters lived at the school in Weimar, but at the house of a lady who had +been recommended to Mrs Hopgood, and by this lady they were introduced to +the great German classics. She herself was an enthusiast for Goethe, +whom she well remembered in his old age, and Clara and Madge, each of +them in turn, learned to know the poet as they would never have known him +in England. Even the town taught them much about him, for in many ways +it was expressive of him and seemed as if it had shaped itself for him. +It was a delightful time for them. They enjoyed the society and constant +mental stimulus; they loved the beautiful park; not a separate enclosure +walled round like an English park, but suffering the streets to end in +it, and in summer time there were excursions into the Thüringer Wald, +generally to some point memorable in history, or for some literary +association. The drawback was the contrast, when they went home, with +Fenmarket, with its dulness and its complete isolation from the +intellectual world. At Weimar, in the evening, they could see Egmont or +hear Fidelio, or talk with friends about the last utterance upon the +Leben Jesu; but the Fenmarket Egmont was a travelling wax-work show, its +Fidelio psalm tunes, or at best some of Bishop’s glees, performed by a +few of the tradesfolk, who had never had an hour’s instruction in music; +and for theological criticism there were the parish church and Ram Lane +Chapel. They did their best; they read their old favourites and +subscribed for a German as well as an English literary weekly newspaper, +but at times they were almost beaten. Madge more than Clara was liable +to depression. + +No Fenmarket maiden, other than the Hopgoods, was supposed to have any +connection whatever, or to have any capacity for any connection with +anything outside the world in which ‘young ladies’ dwelt, and if a +Fenmarket girl read a book, a rare occurrence, for there were no +circulating libraries there in those days, she never permitted herself to +say anything more than that it was ‘nice,’ or it was ‘not nice,’ or she +‘liked it’ or did ‘not like it;’ and if she had ventured to say more, +Fenmarket would have thought her odd, not to say a little improper. The +Hopgood young women were almost entirely isolated, for the tradesfolk +felt themselves uncomfortable and inferior in every way in their +presence, and they were ineligible for rectory and brewery society, not +only because their father was merely a manager, but because of their +strange ways. Mrs Tubbs, the brewer’s wife, thought they were due to +Germany. From what she knew of Germany she considered it most +injudicious, and even morally wrong, to send girls there. She once made +the acquaintance of a German lady at an hotel at Tunbridge Wells, and was +quite shocked. She could see quite plainly that the standard of female +delicacy must be much lower in that country than in England. Mr Tubbs +was sure Mrs Hopgood must have been French, and said to his daughters, +mysteriously, ‘you never can tell who Frenchwomen are.’ + +‘But, papa,’ said Miss Tubbs, ‘you know Mrs Hopgood’s maiden name; we +found that out. It was Molyneux.’ + +‘Of course, my dear, of course; but if she was a Frenchwoman resident in +England she would prefer to assume an English name, that is to say if she +wished to be married.’ + +Occasionally the Miss Hopgoods were encountered, and they confounded +Fenmarket sorely. On one memorable occasion there was a party at the +Rectory: it was the annual party into which were swept all the +unclassifiable odds-and-ends which could not be put into the two +gatherings which included the aristocracy and the democracy of the place. +Miss Clara Hopgood amazed everybody by ‘beginning talk,’ by asking Mrs +Greatorex, her hostess, who had been far away to Sidmouth for a holiday, +whether she had been to the place where Coleridge was born, and when the +parson’s wife said she had not, and that she could not be expected to +make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of an infidel, Miss Hopgood expressed +her surprise, and declared she would walk twenty miles any day to see +Ottery St Mary. Still worse, when somebody observed that an +Anti-Corn-Law lecturer was coming to Fenmarket, and the parson’s daughter +cried ‘How horrid!’ Miss Hopgood talked again, and actually told the +parson that, so far as she had read upon the subject—fancy her reading +about the Corn-Laws!—the argument was all one way, and that after Colonel +Thompson nothing new could really be urged. + +‘What is so—’ she was about to say ‘objectionable,’ but she recollected +her official position and that she was bound to be politic—‘so odd and +unusual,’ observed Mrs Greatorex to Mrs Tubbs afterwards, ‘is not that +Miss Hopgood should have radical views. Mrs Barker, I know, is a radical +like her husband, but then she never puts herself forward, nor makes +speeches. I never saw anything quite like it, except once in London at a +dinner-party. Lady Montgomery then went on in much the same way, but she +was a baronet’s wife; the baronet was in Parliament; she received a good +deal and was obliged to entertain her guests.’ + +Poor Clara! she was really very unobtrusive and very modest, but there +had been constant sympathy between her and her father, not the dumb +sympathy as between man and dog, but that which can manifest itself in +human fashion. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +CLARA and her father were both chess-players, and at the time at which +our history begins, Clara had been teaching Madge the game for about six +months. + +‘Check!’ said Clara. + +‘Check! after about a dozen moves. It is of no use to go on; you always +beat me. I should not mind that if I were any better now than when I +started. It is not in me.’ + +‘The reason is that you do not look two moves ahead. You never say to +yourself, “Suppose I move there, what is she likely to do, and what can I +do afterwards?”’ + +‘That is just what is impossible to me. I cannot hold myself down; the +moment I go beyond the next move my thoughts fly away, and I am in a +muddle, and my head turns round. I was not born for it. I can do what +is under my nose well enough, but nothing more.’ + +‘The planning and the forecasting are the soul of the game. I should +like to be a general, and play against armies and calculate the +consequences of manœuvres.’ + +‘It would kill me. I should prefer the fighting. Besides, calculation +is useless, for when I think that you will be sure to move such and such +a piece, you generally do not.’ + +‘Then what makes the difference between the good and the bad player?’ + +‘It is a gift, an instinct, I suppose.’ + +‘Which is as much as to say that you give it up. You are very fond of +that word instinct; I wish you would not use it.’ + +‘I have heard you use it, and say you instinctively like this person or +that.’ + +‘Certainly; I do not deny that sometimes I am drawn to a person or +repelled from him before I can say why; but I always force myself to +discover afterwards the cause of my attraction or repulsion, and I +believe it is a duty to do so. If we neglect it we are little better +than the brutes, and may grossly deceive ourselves.’ + +At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Madge jumped up, nearly +over-setting the board, and rushed into the front room. It was the +four-horse coach from London, which, once a day, passed through Fenmarket +on its road to Lincoln. It was not the direct route from London to +Lincoln, but the _Defiance_ went this way to accommodate Fenmarket and +other small towns. It slackened speed in order to change horses at the +‘Crown and Sceptre,’ and as Madge stood at the window, a gentleman on the +box-seat looked at her intently as he passed. In another minute he had +descended, and was welcomed by the landlord, who stood on the pavement. +Clara meanwhile had taken up a book, but before she had read a page, her +sister skipped into the parlour again, humming a tune. + +‘Let me see—check, you said, but it is not mate.’ + +She put her elbows on the table, rested her head between her hands, and +appeared to contemplate the game profoundly. + +‘Now, then, what do you say to that?’ + +It was really a very lucky move, and Clara, whose thoughts perhaps were +elsewhere, was presently most unaccountably defeated. Madge was +triumphant. + +‘Where are all your deep-laid schemes? Baffled by a poor creature who +can hardly put two and two together.’ + +‘Perhaps your schemes were better than mine.’ + +‘You know they were not. I saw the queen ought to take that bishop, and +never bothered myself as to what would follow. Have you not lost your +faith in schemes?’ + +‘You are very much mistaken if you suppose that, because of one failure, +or of twenty failures, I would give up a principle.’ + +‘Clara, you are a strange creature. Don’t let us talk any more about +chess.’ + +Madge swept all the pieces with her hand into the box, shut it, closed +the board, and put her feet on the fender. + +‘You never believe in impulses or in doing a thing just because here and +now it appears to be the proper thing to do. Suppose anybody were to +make love to you—oh! how I wish somebody would, you dear girl, for nobody +deserves it more—’ Madge put her head caressingly on Clara’s shoulder +and then raised it again. ‘Suppose, I say, anybody were to make love to +you, would you hold off for six months and consider, and consider, and +ask yourself whether he had such and such virtues, and whether he could +make you happy? Would not that stifle love altogether? Would you not +rather obey your first impression and, if you felt you loved him, would +you not say “Yes”?’ + +‘Time is not everything. A man who is prompt and is therefore thought to +be hasty by sluggish creatures who are never half awake, may in five +minutes spend more time in consideration than his critics will spend in +as many weeks. I have never had the chance, and am not likely to have +it. I can only say that if it were to come to me, I should try to use +the whole strength of my soul. Precisely because the question would be +so important, would it be necessary to employ every faculty I have in +order to decide it. I do not believe in oracles which are supposed to +prove their divinity by giving no reasons for their commands.’ + +‘Ah, well, _I_ believe in Shakespeare. His lovers fall in love at first +sight.’ + +‘No doubt they do, but to justify yourself you have to suppose that you +are a Juliet and your friend a Romeo. They may, for aught I know, be +examples in my favour. However, I have to lay down a rule for my own +poor, limited self, and, to speak the truth, I am afraid that great men +often do harm by imposing on us that which is serviceable to themselves +only; or, to put it perhaps more correctly, we mistake the real nature of +their processes, just as a person who is unskilled in arithmetic would +mistake the processes of anybody who is very quick at it, and would be +led away by them. Shakespeare is much to me, but the more he is to me, +the more careful I ought to be to discover what is the true law of my own +nature, more important to me after all than Shakespeare’s.’ + +‘Exactly. I know what the law of mine is. If a man were to present +himself to me, I should rely on that instinct you so much despise, and I +am certain that the balancing, see-saw method would be fatal. It would +disclose a host of reasons against any conclusion, and I should never +come to any.’ + +Clara smiled. Although this impetuosity was foreign to her, she loved it +for the good which accompanied it. + +‘You do not mean to say you would accept or reject him at once?’ + +‘No, certainly not. What I mean is that in a few days, perhaps in a +shorter time, something within me would tell me whether we were suited to +one another, although we might not have talked upon half-a-dozen +subjects.’ + +‘I think the risk tremendous.’ + +‘But there is just as much risk the other way. You would examine your +friend, catalogue him, sum up his beliefs, note his behaviour under +various experimental trials, and miserably fail, after all your +scientific investigation, to ascertain just the one important point +whether you loved him and could live with him. Your reason was not meant +for that kind of work. If a woman trusts in such matters to the faculty +by which, when she wishes to settle whether she is to take this house or +that, she puts the advantages of the larger back kitchen on one side and +the bigger front kitchen on the other, I pity her.’ + +Mrs Hopgood at this moment came downstairs and asked when in the name of +fortune they meant to have the tea ready. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +FRANK PALMER, the gentleman whom we saw descend from the coach, was the +eldest son of a wholesale and manufacturing chemist in London. He was +now about five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a partner, he +had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for his firm. The +elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, something more than a Whig in +politics, and an enthusiastic member of the Broad Church party, which was +then becoming a power in the country. He was well-to-do, living in a +fine old red-brick house at Stoke Newington, with half-a-dozen acres of +ground round it, and, if Frank had been born thirty years later, he would +probably have gone to Cambridge or Oxford. In those days, however, it +was not the custom to send boys to the Universities unless they were +intended for the law, divinity or idleness, and Frank’s training, which +was begun at St Paul’s school, was completed there. He lived at home, +going to school in the morning and returning in the evening. He was +surrounded by every influence which was pure and noble. Mr Maurice and +Mr Sterling were his father’s guests, and hence it may be inferred that +there was an altar in the house, and that the sacred flame burnt thereon. +Mr Palmer almost worshipped Mr Maurice, and his admiration was not blind, +for Maurice connected the Bible with what was rational in his friend. +‘What! still believable: no need then to pitch it overboard: here after +all is the Eternal Word!’ It can be imagined how those who dared not +close their eyes to the light, and yet clung to that book which had been +so much to their forefathers and themselves, rejoiced when they were able +to declare that it belonged to them more than to those who misjudged them +and could deny that they were heretics. The boy’s education was entirely +classical and athletic, and as he was quick at learning and loved his +games, he took a high position amongst his school-fellows. He was not +particularly reflective, but he was generous and courageous, perfectly +straightforward, a fair specimen of thousands of English public-school +boys. As he grew up, he somewhat disappointed his father by a lack of +any real interest in the subjects in which his father was interested. He +accepted willingly, and even enthusiastically, the household conclusions +on religion and politics, but they were not properly his, for he accepted +them merely as conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often +even a little annoying to hear him express some free opinion on religious +questions in a way which showed that it was not a growth but something +picked up. Mr Palmer, senior, sometimes recoiled into intolerance and +orthodoxy, and bewildered his son who, to use one of his own phrases, +‘hardly knew where his father was.’ Partly the reaction was due to the +oscillation which accompanies serious and independent thought, but mainly +it was caused by Mr Palmer’s discontent with Frank’s appropriation of a +sentiment or doctrine of which he was not the lawful owner. Frank, +however, was so hearty, so affectionate, and so cheerful, that it was +impossible not to love him dearly. + +In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for the ‘Crown +and Sceptre’ was his headquarters, and Madge was well enough aware that +she had been noticed. He had inquired casually who it was who lived next +door, and when the waiter told him the name, and that Mr Hopgood was +formerly the bank manager, Frank remembered that he had often heard his +father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in a bank in London, as one of his +best friends. He did not fail to ask his father about this friend, and +to obtain an introduction to the widow. He had now brought it to +Fenmarket, and within half an hour after he had alighted, he had +presented it. + +Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and the welcome +to Frank was naturally very warm. It was delightful to connect earlier +and happier days with the present, and she was proud in the possession of +a relationship which had lasted so long. Clara and Madge, too, were both +excited and pleased. To say nothing of Frank’s appearance, of his +unsnobbish, deferential behaviour which showed that he understood who +they were and that the little house made no difference to him, the girls +and the mother could not resist a side glance at Fenmarket and the +indulgence of a secret satisfaction that it would soon hear that the son +of Mr Palmer, so well known in every town round about, was on intimate +terms with them. + +Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of sympathetic +people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she was often +astonished at the witty things and even the wise things she said in such +company, although, when she was alone, so few things wise or witty +occurred to her. Like all persons who, in conversation, do not so much +express the results of previous conviction obtained in silence as the +inspiration of the moment, Madge dazzled everybody by a brilliancy which +would have been impossible if she had communicated that which had been +slowly acquired, but what she left with those who listened to her, did +not always seem, on reflection, to be so much as it appeared to be while +she was talking. Still she was very charming, and it must be confessed +that sometimes her spontaneity was truer than the limitations of speech +more carefully weighed. + +‘What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? How I wish you would +come to London!’ + +‘I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached to it; I have very +few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the most convincing reason, I +could not afford it. Rent and living are cheaper here than in town.’ + +‘Would you not like to live in London, Miss Hopgood?’ + +Clara hesitated for a few seconds. + +‘I am not sure—certainly not by myself. I was in London once for six +months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where I saw much +society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.’ + +‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted Madge; ‘it is so romantic, +so mountainous, so interesting in every way.’ + +‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. In London nobody +really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense in which I should +use the words. Men and women in London stand for certain talents, and +are valued often very highly for them, but they are valued merely as +representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, I should not be +satisfied with admiration or respect because of it. No matter what +admiration, or respect, or even enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were +told that my services had been immense and that life had been changed +through my instrumentality, I should feel the lack of quiet, personal +affection, and that, I believe, is not common in London. If I were +famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of the world for the love of +a brother—if I had one—or a sister, who perhaps had never heard what it +was which had made me renowned.’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the love of _such_ a sister. +But, Mr Palmer, I like London. I like the people, just the people, +although I do not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing +about me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the country. I never +have a thought of my own down here. How should I? But in London there +is plenty of talk about all kinds of things, and I find I too have +something in me. It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything +particular to anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want +too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are rather a burden. +They involve profound and eternal attachment on my part; and I have +always to be at my best; such watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer a +dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’ + +‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of +laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.’ + +Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too much to +one another, as they often did, even when guests were present, and she +therefore interrupted them. + +‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country—which do you prefer?’ + +‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in the +winter.’ + +This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is to +say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid reason +why he liked being in London in the winter. + +‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his taste, +and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.’ + +‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St Paul?” I was at Birmingham +when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it _is_ lovely,’ and he +began humming ‘_Be thou faithful unto death_.’ + +Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to be +had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request amongst his +father’s friends at evening entertainments. He could also play the +piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself thereon. He sang to +himself when he was travelling, and often murmured favourite airs when +people around him were talking. He had lessons from an old Italian, a +little, withered, shabby creature, who was not very proud of his pupil. +‘He is a talent,’ said the Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a +ballad at a party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere ‘talents’ Frank +failed in his songs to give them just what is of most value—just that +which separates an artistic performance from the vast region of +well-meaning, respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a +curious lack in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest +of himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something +which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was not +the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful in many +ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven was genuine, +but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which the sonatas and +symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into raptures over the +slow movement in the _C minor_ Symphony, but no _C minor_ slow movement +was discernible in his character. + +‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” which can be put to music?’ said +Madge. ‘Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a +duet!’ + +‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ said her mother. + +‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that some of the settings by your +divinity, Handel, are absurd. “_For as in Adam all die_” may be true +enough, and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always tempted to +laugh when I hear it.’ + +Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘_Be not afraid_.’ + +‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs Hopgood. + +‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the little piano and sang +the song through. + +‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said Madge, ‘so far as the +coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but I do not care much for +oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, and the +main reason for selecting the Bible is that what is called religious +music may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, is never +quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical subject, and, besides, +you cannot have proper love songs in an oratorio, and in them music is at +its best.’ + +Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s extravagance, but she was, +nevertheless, a little uncomfortable. + +‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and he struck the +first two bars of ‘_Adelaide_.’ + +‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go on,’ but Frank could not quite +finish it. + +She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, lay and +listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration in Mr Palmer’s voice +not perceptible during his vision of the crown of life and of fidelity to +death. + +‘Are you going to stay over Sunday?’ inquired Mrs Hopgood. + +‘I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday evening. My father +likes me to be at home on that day.’ + +‘Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?’ + +‘Oh, yes, a great friend.’ + +‘He is not High Church nor Low Church?’ + +‘No, not exactly.’ + +‘What is he, then? What does he believe?’ + +‘Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will be burnt +in a brimstone lake for ever.’ + +‘That is what he does not believe,’ interposed Clara. + +‘He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans who acted up +to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. I think that is +glorious, don’t you?’ + +‘Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. What is there in +him which is positive? What has he distinctly won from the unknown?’ + +‘Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful. I do +admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.’ + +‘If you do not go home on Saturday,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘we shall be +pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; we generally go for a +walk in the afternoon.’ + +Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. Her hair +was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. It grew rather +low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her temples, a mystery +of shadow and dark recess. If it had been electrical with the force of a +strong battery and had touched him, he could not have been more +completely paralysed, and his half-erect resolution to go back on +Saturday was instantly laid flat. + +‘Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,’ looking at Madge and meeting her eyes, ‘I think +it very likely I shall stay, and if I do I will most certainly accept +your kind invitation.’ + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +SUNDAY morning came, and Frank, being in the country, considered himself +absolved from the duty of going to church, and went for a long stroll. +At half-past one he presented himself at Mrs Hopgood’s house. + +‘I have had a letter from London,’ said Clara to Frank, ‘telling me a +most extraordinary story, and I should like to know what you think of it. +A man, who was left a widower, had an only child, a lovely daughter of +about fourteen years old, in whose existence his own was completely +wrapped up. She was subject at times to curious fits of self-absorption +or absence of mind, and while she was under their influence she resembled +a somnambulist rather than a sane human being awake. Her father would +not take her to a physician, for he dreaded lest he should be advised to +send her away from home, and he also feared the effect which any +recognition of her disorder might have upon her. He believed that in +obscure and half-mental diseases like hers, it was prudent to suppress +all notice of them, and that if he behaved to her as if she were +perfectly well, she would stand a chance of recovery. Moreover, the +child was visibly improving, and it was probable that the disturbance in +her health would be speedily outgrown. One hot day he went out shopping +with her, and he observed that she was tired and strange in her manner, +although she was not ill, or, at least, not so ill as he had often before +seen her. The few purchases they had to make at the draper’s were +completed, and they went out into the street. He took her hand-bag, and, +in doing so, it opened and he saw to his horror a white silk +pocket-handkerchief crumpled up in it, which he instantly recognised as +one which had been shown him five minutes before, but he had not bought. +The next moment a hand was on his shoulder. It was that of an assistant, +who requested that they would both return for a few minutes. As they +walked the half dozen steps back, the father’s resolution was taken. “I +am sixty,” he thought to himself, “and she is fourteen.” They went into +the counting-house and he confessed that he had taken the handkerchief, +but that it was taken by mistake and that he was about to restore it when +he was arrested. The poor girl was now herself again, but her mind was +an entire blank as to what she had done, and she could not doubt her +father’s statement, for it was a man’s handkerchief and the bag was in +his hands. The draper was inexorable, and as he had suffered much from +petty thefts of late, had determined to make an example of the first +offender whom he could catch. The father was accordingly prosecuted, +convicted and sentenced to imprisonment. When his term had expired, his +daughter, who, I am glad to say, never for an instant lost her faith in +him, went away with him to a distant part of the country, where they +lived under an assumed name. About ten years afterwards he died and kept +his secret to the last; but he had seen the complete recovery and happy +marriage of his child. It was remarkable that it never occurred to her +that she might have been guilty, but her father’s confession, as already +stated, was apparently so sincere that she could do nothing but believe +him. You will wonder how the facts were discovered. After his death a +sealed paper disclosing them was found, with the inscription, “_Not to be +opened during my daughter’s life_, _and if she should have children or a +husband who may survive her_, _it is to be burnt_.” She had no children, +and when she died as an old woman, her husband also being dead, the seal +was broken.’ + +‘Probably,’ said Madge, ‘nobody except his daughter believed he was not a +thief. For her sake he endured the imputation of common larceny, and was +content to leave the world with only a remote chance that he would ever +be justified.’ + +‘I wonder,’ said Frank, ‘that he did not admit that it was his daughter +who had taken the handkerchief, and excuse her on the ground of her +ailment.’ + +‘He could not do that,’ replied Madge. ‘The object of his life was to +make as little of the ailment as possible. What would have been the +effect on her if she had been made aware of its fearful consequences? +Furthermore, would he have been believed? And then—awful thought, the +child might have suspected him of attempting to shield himself at her +expense! Do you think you could be capable of such sacrifice, Mr +Palmer?’ + +Frank hesitated. ‘It would—’ + +‘The question is not fair, Madge,’ said Mrs Hopgood, interrupting him. +‘You are asking for a decision when all the materials to make up a +decision are not present. It is wrong to question ourselves in cold +blood as to what we should do in a great strait; for the emergency brings +the insight and the power necessary to deal with it. I often fear lest, +if such-and-such a trial were to befall me, I should miserably fail. So +I should, furnished as I now am, but not as I should be under stress of +the trial.’ + +‘What is the use,’ said Clara, ‘of speculating whether we can, or cannot, +do this or that? It _is_ now an interesting subject for discussion +whether the lie was a sin.’ + +‘No,’ said Madge, ‘a thousand times no.’ + +‘Brief and decisive. Well, Mr Palmer, what do you say?’ + +‘That is rather an awkward question. A lie is a lie.’ + +‘But not,’ broke in Madge, vehemently, ‘to save anybody whom you love. +Is a contemptible little two-foot measuring-tape to be applied to such an +action as that?’ + +‘The consequences of such a philosophy, though, my dear,’ said Mrs +Hopgood, ‘are rather serious. The moment you dispense with a fixed +standard, you cannot refuse permission to other people to dispense with +it also.’ + +‘Ah, yes, I know all about that, but I am not going to give up my +instinct for the sake of a rule. Do what you feel to be right, and let +the rule go hang. Somebody, cleverer in logic than we are, will come +along afterwards and find a higher rule which we have obeyed, and will +formulate it concisely.’ + +‘As for my poor self,’ said Clara, ‘I do not profess to know, without the +rule, what is right and what is not. We are always trying to transcend +the rule by some special pleading, and often in virtue of some fancied +superiority. Generally speaking, the attempt is fatal.’ + +‘Madge,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘your dogmatic decision may have been +interesting, but it prevented the expression of Mr Palmer’s opinion.’ + +Madge bent forward and politely inclined her head to the embarrassed +Frank. + +‘I do not know what to say. I have never thought much about such +matters. Is not what they call casuistry a science among Roman +Catholics? If I were in a difficulty and could not tell right from +wrong, I should turn Catholic, and come to you as my priest, Mrs +Hopgood.’ + +‘Then you would do, not what you thought right yourself, but what I +thought right. The worth of the right to you is that it is your right, +and that you arrive at it in your own way. Besides, you might not have +time to consult anybody. Were you never compelled to settle promptly a +case of this kind?’ + +‘I remember once at school, when the mathematical master was out of the +class-room, a boy named Carpenter ran up to the blackboard and wrote +“Carrots” on it. That was the master’s nickname, for he was red-haired. +Scarcely was the word finished, when Carpenter heard him coming along the +passage. There was just time partially to rub out some of the big +letters, but CAR remained, and Carpenter was standing at the board when +“Carrots” came in. He was an excitable man, and he knew very well what +the boys called him. + +‘“What have you been writing on the board, sir?” + +‘“Carpenter, sir.” + +‘The master examined the board. The upper half of the second R was +plainly perceptible, but it might possibly have been a P. He turned +round, looked steadily at Carpenter for a moment, and then looked at us. +Carpenter was no favourite, but not a soul spoke. + +‘“Go to your place, sir.” + +‘Carpenter went to his place, the letters were erased and the lesson was +resumed. I was greatly perplexed; I had acquiesced in a cowardly +falsehood. Carrots was a great friend of mine, and I could not bear to +feel that he was humbugged, so when we were outside I went up to +Carpenter and told him he was an infernal sneak, and we had a desperate +fight, and I licked him, and blacked both his eyes. I did not know what +else to do.’ + +The company laughed. + +‘We cannot,’ said Madge, ‘all of us come to terms after this fashion with +our consciences, but we have had enough of these discussions on morality. +Let us go out.’ + +They went out, and, as some relief from the straight road, they turned +into a field as they came home, and walked along a footpath which crossed +the broad, deep ditches by planks. They were within about fifty yards of +the last and broadest ditch, more a dyke than a ditch, when Frank, +turning round, saw an ox which they had not noticed, galloping after +them. + +‘Go on, go on,’ he cried, ‘make for the plank.’ + +He discerned in an instant that unless the course of the animal could be +checked it would overtake them before the bridge could be reached. The +women fled, but Frank remained. He was in the habit of carrying a heavy +walking-stick, the end of which he had hollowed out in his schooldays and +had filled up with lead. Just as the ox came upon him, it laid its head +to the ground, and Frank, springing aside, dealt it a tremendous, +two-handed blow on the forehead with his knobbed weapon. The creature +was dazed, it stopped and staggered, and in another instant Frank was +across the bridge in safety. There was a little hysterical sobbing, but +it was soon over. + +‘Oh, Mr Palmer,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘what presence of mind and what +courage! We should have been killed without you.’ + +‘The feat is not original, Mrs Hopgood. I saw it done by a tough little +farmer last summer on a bull that was really mad. There was no ditch for +him though, poor fellow, and he had to jump a hedge.’ + +‘You did not find it difficult,’ said Madge, ‘to settle your problem when +it came to you in the shape of a wild ox.’ + +‘Because there was nothing to settle,’ said Frank, laughing; ‘there was +only one thing to be done.’ + +‘So you believed, or rather, so you saw,’ said Clara. ‘I should have +seen half-a-dozen things at once—that is to say, nothing.’ + +‘And I,’ said Madge, ‘should have settled it the wrong way: I am sure I +should, even if I had been a man. I should have bolted.’ + +Frank stayed to tea, and the evening was musical. He left about ten, but +just as the door had shut he remembered he had forgotten his stick. He +gave a gentle rap and Madge appeared. She gave him his stick. + +‘Good-bye again. Thanks for my life.’ + +Frank cursed himself that he could not find the proper word. He knew +there was something which might be said and ought to be said, but he +could not say it. Madge held out her hand to him, he raised it to his +lips and kissed it, and then, astonished at his boldness, he instantly +retreated. He went to the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ and was soon in bed, but +not to sleep. Strange, that the moment we lie down in the dark, images, +which were half obscured, should become so intensely luminous! Madge +hovered before Frank with almost tangible distinctness, and he felt his +fingers moving in her heavy, voluptuous tresses. Her picture at last +became almost painful to him and shamed him, so that he turned over from +side to side to avoid it. He had never been thrown into the society of +women of his own age, for he had no sister, and a fire was kindled within +him which burnt with a heat all the greater because his life had been so +pure. At last he fell asleep and did not wake till late in the morning. +He had just time to eat his breakfast, pay one more business visit in the +town, and catch the coach due at eleven o’clock from Lincoln to London. +As the horses were being changed, he walked as near as he dared venture +to the windows of the cottage next door, but he could see nobody. When +the coach, however, began to move, he turned round and looked behind him, +and a hand was waved to him. He took off his hat, and in five minutes he +was clear of the town. It was in sight a long way, but when, at last, it +disappeared, a cloud of wretchedness swept over him as the vapour sweeps +up from the sea. What was she doing? talking to other people, existing +for others, laughing with others! There were miles between himself and +Fenmarket. Life! what was life? A few moments of living and long, +dreary gaps between. All this, however, is a vain attempt to delineate +what was shapeless. It was an intolerable, unvanquishable oppression. +This was Love; this was the blessing which the god with the ruddy wings +had bestowed on him. It was a relief to him when the coach rattled +through Islington, and in a few minutes had landed him at the ‘Angel.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +THERE was to be a grand entertainment in the assembly room of the ‘Crown +and Sceptre’ in aid of the County Hospital. Mrs Martin, widow of one of +the late partners in the bank, lived in a large house near Fenmarket, and +still had an interest in the business. She was distinctly above anybody +who lived in the town, and she knew how to show her superiority by +venturing sometimes to do what her urban neighbours could not possibly +do. She had been known to carry through the street a quart bottle of +horse physic although it was wrapped up in nothing but brown paper. On +her way she met the brewer’s wife, who was more aggrieved than she was +when Mrs Martin’s carriage swept past her in the dusty, narrow lane which +led to the Hall. Mrs Martin could also afford to recognise in a measure +the claims of education and talent. A gentleman came from London to +lecture in the town, and showed astonished Fenmarket an orrery and a +magic lantern with dissolving views of the Holy Land. The exhibition had +been provided in order to extinguish a debt incurred in repairing the +church, but the rector’s wife, and the brewer’s wife, after consultation, +decided that they must leave the lecturer to return to his inn. Mrs +Martin, however, invited him to supper. Of course she knew Mr Hopgood +well, and knew that he was no ordinary man. She knew also something of +Mrs Hopgood and the daughters, and that they were no ordinary women. She +had been heard to say that they were ladies, and that Mr Hopgood was a +gentleman; and she kept up a distant kind of intimacy with them, always +nodded to them whenever she met them, and every now and then sent them +grapes and flowers. She had observed once or twice to Mrs Tubbs that Mr +Hopgood was a remarkable person, who was quite scientific and therefore +did not associate with the rest of the Fenmarket folk; and Mrs Tubbs was +much annoyed, particularly by a slight emphasis which she thought she +detected in the ‘therefore,’ for Mr Tubbs had told her that one of the +smaller London brewers, who had only about fifty public-houses, had +refused to meet at dinner a learned French chemist who had written books. +Mrs Martin could not make friends with the Hopgoods, nor enter the +cottage. It would have been a transgression of that infinitely fine and +tortuous line whose inexplicable convolutions mark off what is forbidden +to a society lady. Clearly, however, the Hopgoods could be requested to +co-operate at the ‘Crown and Sceptre;’ in fact, it would be impolitic not +to put some of the townsfolk on the list of patrons. So it came about +that Mrs Hopgood was included, and that she was made responsible for the +provision of one song and one recitation. For the song it was settled +that Frank Palmer should be asked, as he would be in Fenmarket. Usually +he came but once every half year, but he had not been able, so he said, +to finish all his work the last time. The recitation Madge undertook. + +The evening arrived, the room was crowded and a dozen private carriages +stood in the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ courtyard. Frank called for the +Hopgoods. Mrs Hopgood and Clara sat with presentation tickets in the +second row, amongst the fashionable folk; Frank and Madge were upon the +platform. Frank was loudly applauded in ‘_Il Mio Tesoro_,’ but the +loudest applause of the evening was reserved for Madge, who declaimed +Byron’s ‘_Destruction of Sennacherib_’ with much energy. She certainly +looked very charming in her red gown, harmonising with her black hair. +The men in the audience were vociferous for something more, and would not +be contented until she again came forward. The truth is, that the wily +young woman had prepared herself beforehand for possibilities, but she +artfully concealed her preparation. Looking on the ground and +hesitating, she suddenly raised her head as if she had just remembered +something, and then repeated Sir Henry Wotton’s ‘_Happy Life_.’ She was +again greeted with cheers, subdued so as to be in accordance with the +character of the poem, but none the less sincere, and in the midst of +them she gracefully bowed and retired. Mrs Martin complimented her +warmly at the end of the performance, and inwardly debated whether Madge +could be asked to enliven one of the parties at the Hall, and how it +could, at the same time, be made clear to the guests that she and her +mother, who must come with her, were not even acquaintances, properly so +called, but were patronised as persons of merit living in the town which +the Hall protected. Mrs Martin was obliged to be very careful. She +certainly was on the list at the Lord Lieutenant’s, but she was in the +outer ring, and she was not asked to those small and select little +dinners which were given to Sir Egerton, the Dean of Peterborough, Lord +Francis, and his brother, the county member. She decided, however, that +she could make perfectly plain the conditions upon which the Hopgoods +would be present, and the next day she sent Madge a little note asking +her if she would ‘assist in some festivities’ at the Hall in about two +months’ time, which were to be given in celebration of the twenty-first +birthday of Mrs Martin’s third son. The scene from the ‘_Tempest_,’ +where Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered playing chess, was suggested, +and it was proposed that Madge should be Miranda, and Mr Palmer +Ferdinand. Mrs Martin concluded with a hope that Mrs Hopgood and her +eldest daughter would ‘witness the performance.’ + +Frank joyously consented, for amateur theatricals had always attracted +him, and in a few short weeks he was again at Fenmarket. He was obliged +to be there for three or four days before the entertainment, in order to +attend the rehearsals, which Mrs Martin had put under the control of a +professional gentleman from London, and Madge and he were consequently +compelled to make frequent journeys to the Hall. + +At last the eventful night arrived, and a carriage was hired next door to +take the party. They drove up to the grand entrance and were met by a +footman, who directed Madge and Frank to their dressing-rooms, and +escorted Mrs Hopgood and Clara to their places in the theatre. They had +gone early in order to accommodate Frank and Madge, and they found +themselves alone. They were surprised that there was nobody to welcome +them, and a little more surprised when they found that the places +allotted to them were rather in the rear. Presently two or three +fiddlers were seen, who began to tune their instruments. Then some +Fenmarket folk and some of the well-to-do tenants on the estate made +their appearance, and took seats on either side of Mrs Hopgood and Clara. +Quite at the back were the servants. At five minutes to eight the band +struck up the overture to ‘_Zampa_,’ and in the midst of it in sailed Mrs +Martin and a score or two of fashionably-dressed people, male and female. +The curtain ascended and Prospero’s cell was seen. Alonso and his +companions were properly grouped, and Prospero began,— + + ‘Behold, Sir King, + The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.’ + +The audience applauded him vigorously when he came to the end of his +speech, but there was an instantaneous cry of ‘hush!’ when Prospero +disclosed the lovers. It was really very pretty. Miranda wore a loose, +simple, white robe, and her wonderful hair was partly twisted into a +knot, and partly strayed down to her waist. The dialogue between the two +was spoken with much dramatic feeling, and when Ferdinand came to the +lines— + + ‘Sir, she is mortal, + But by immortal Providence she’s mine,’ + +old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs Hopgood, +cried out ‘hear, hear!’ but was instantly suppressed. + +He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed his knees, +grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, and whispered, +with his hand to his mouth,— + +‘And a precious lucky chap he is.’ + +Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the gods to drop a +blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was renewed, and Boston +again cried ‘hear, hear!’ without fear of check, she did not applaud, for +something told her that behind this stage show a drama was being played +of far more serious importance. + +The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the performers. It rose, +and they presented themselves, Alonso still holding the hands of the +happy pair. The cheering now was vociferous, more particularly when a +wreath was flung at the feet of the young princess, and Ferdinand, +stooping, placed it on her head. + +Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the +audience were treated to ‘something light,’ and roared with laughter at a +pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled a young booby +who was staying there, pitched him overboard; ‘wondered what he meant;’ +sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits, and finished with a +_pas-seul_. + +The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper, and +the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the morning. +On their way back, Clara broke out against the juxtaposition of +Shakespeare and such vulgarity. + +‘Much better,’ she said, ‘to have left the Shakespeare out altogether. +The lesson of the sequence is that each is good in its way, a perfectly +hateful doctrine to me. + +Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially Frank, +who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very temperate +allowance. + +‘But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must not be too +severe upon her.’ + +There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; the word +‘tastes,’ for example, as if the difference between Miranda and the +chambermaid were a matter of ‘taste.’ She was annoyed too with Frank’s +easy, cheery tones for she felt deeply what she said, and his mitigation +and smiling latitudinarianism were more exasperating than direct +opposition. + +‘I am sure,’ continued Frank, ‘that if we were to take the votes of the +audience, Miranda would be the queen of the evening;’ and he put the +crown which he had brought away with him on her head again. + +Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door of their house. +It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping out of the carriage in a hurry, +threw a shawl over her head, forgetting the wreath. It fell into the +gutter and was splashed with mud. Frank picked it up, wiped it as well +as he could with his pocket-handkerchief, took it into the parlour and +laid it on a chair. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +THE next morning it still rained, a cold rain from the north-east, a very +disagreeable type of weather on the Fenmarket flats. Madge was not awake +until late, and when she caught sight of the grey sky and saw her finery +tumbled on the floor—no further use for it in any shape save as rags—and +the dirty crown, which she had brought upstairs, lying on the heap, the +leaves already fading, she felt depressed and miserable. The breakfast +was dull, and for the most part all three were silent. Mrs Hopgood and +Clara went away to begin their housework, leaving Madge alone. + +‘Madge,’ cried Mrs Hopgood, ‘what am I to do with this thing? It is of +no use to preserve it; it is dead and covered with dirt.’ + +‘Throw it down here.’ + +She took it and rammed it into the fire. At that moment she saw Frank +pass. He was evidently about to knock, but she ran to the door and +opened it. + +‘I did not wish to keep you waiting in the wet.’ + +‘I am just off but I could not help calling to see how you are. What! +burning your laurels, the testimony to your triumph?’ + +‘Triumph! rather transitory; finishes in smoke,’ and she pushed two or +three of the unburnt leaves amongst the ashes and covered them over. He +stooped down, picked up a leaf, smoothed it between his fingers, and then +raised his eyes. They met hers at that instant, as she lifted them and +looked in his face. They were near one another, and his hands strayed +towards hers till they touched. She did not withdraw; he clasped the +hand, she not resisting; in another moment his arms were round her, his +face was on hers, and he was swept into self-forgetfulness. Suddenly the +horn of the coach about to start awoke him, and he murmured the line from +one of his speeches of the night before— + + ‘But by immortal Providence she’s mine.’ + +She released herself a trifle, held her head back as if she desired to +survey him apart from her, so that the ecstasy of union might be renewed, +and then fell on his neck. + +The horn once more sounded, she let him out silently, and he was off. +Mrs Hopgood and Clara presently came downstairs. + +‘Mr Palmer came in to bid you good-bye, but he heard the coach and was +obliged to rush away.’ + +‘What a pity,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘that you did not call us.’ + +‘I thought he would be able to stay longer.’ + +The lines which followed Frank’s quotation came into her head,— + + ‘Sweet lord, you play me false.’ + ‘No, my dearest love, + I would not for the world.’ + +‘An omen,’ she said to herself; ‘“he would not for the world.”’ + +She was in the best of spirits all day long. When the housework was over +and they were quiet together, she said,— + +‘Now, my dear mother and sister, I want to know how the performance +pleased you.’ + +‘It was as good as it could be,’ replied her mother, ‘but I cannot think +why all plays should turn upon lovemaking. I wonder whether the time +will ever come when we shall care for a play in which there is no +courtship.’ + +‘What a horrible heresy, mother,’ said Madge. + +‘It may be so; it may be that I am growing old, but it seems astonishing +to me sometimes that the world does not grow a little weary of endless +variations on the same theme.’ + +‘Never,’ said Madge, ‘as long as it does not weary of the thing itself, +and it is not likely to do that. Fancy a young man and a young woman +stopping short and exclaiming, “This is just what every son of Adam and +daughter of Eve has gone through before; why should we proceed?” +Besides, it is the one emotion common to the whole world; we can all +comprehend it. Once more, it reveals character. In _Hamlet_ and +_Othello_, for example, what is interesting is not solely the bare love. +The natures of Hamlet and Othello are brought to light through it as they +would not have been through any other stimulus. I am sure that no +ordinary woman ever shows what she really is, except when she is in love. +Can you tell what she is from what she calls her religion, or from her +friends, or even from her husband?’ + +‘Would it not be equally just to say women are more alike in love than in +anything else? Mind, I do not say alike, but more alike. Is it not the +passion which levels us all?’ + +‘Oh, mother, mother! did one ever hear such dreadful blasphemy? That the +loves, for example, of two such cultivated, exquisite creatures as Clara +and myself would be nothing different from those of the barmaids next +door?’ + +‘Well, at anyrate, I do not want to see _my_ children in love to +understand what they are—to me at least.’ + +‘Then, if you comprehend us so completely—and let us have no more +philosophy—just tell me, should I make a good actress? Oh! to be able to +sway a thousand human beings into tears or laughter! It must be divine.’ + +‘No, I do not think you would,’ replied Clara. + +‘Why not, miss? _Your_ opinion, mind, was not asked. Did I not act to +perfection last night?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Then why are you so decisive?’ + +‘Try a different part some day. I may be mistaken.’ + +‘You are very oracular.’ + +She turned to the piano, played a few chords, closed the instrument, +swung herself round on the music stool, and said she should go for a +walk. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +IT was Mr Palmer’s design to send Frank abroad as soon as he understood +the home trade. It was thought it would be an advantage to him to learn +something of foreign manufacturing processes. Frank had gladly agreed to +go, but he was now rather in the mood for delay. Mr Palmer conjectured a +reason for it, and the conjecture was confirmed when, after two or three +more visits to Fenmarket, perfectly causeless, so far as business was +concerned, Frank asked for the paternal sanction to his engagement with +Madge. Consent was willingly given, for Mr Palmer knew the family well; +letters passed between him and Mrs Hopgood, and it was arranged that +Frank’s visit to Germany should be postponed till the summer. He was now +frequently at Fenmarket as Madge’s accepted suitor, and, as the spring +advanced, their evenings were mostly spent by themselves out of doors. +One afternoon they went for a long walk, and on their return they rested +by a stile. Those were the days when Tennyson was beginning to stir the +hearts of the young people in England, and the two little green volumes +had just become a treasure in the Hopgood household. Mr Palmer, senior, +knew them well, and Frank, hearing his father speak so enthusiastically +about them, thought Madge would like them, and had presented them to her. +He had heard one or two read aloud at home, and had looked at one or two +himself, but had gone no further. Madge, her mother, and her sister had +read and re-read them. + +‘Oh,’ said Madge, ‘for that Vale in Ida. Here in these fens how I long +for something that is not level! Oh, for the roar of— + + “The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine + In cataract after cataract to the sea.” + +Go on with it, Frank.’ + +‘I cannot.’ + +‘But you know _Œnone_?’ + +‘I cannot say I do. I began it—’ + +‘Frank, how could you begin it and lay it down unfinished? Besides, +those lines are some of the first; you _must_ remember— + + “Behind the valley topmost Gargarus + Stands up and takes the morning.”’ + +‘No, I do not recollect, but I will learn them; learn them for your +sake.’ + +‘I do not want you to learn them for my sake.’ + +‘But I shall.’ + +She had taken off her hat and his hand strayed to her neck. Her head +fell on his shoulder and she had forgotten his ignorance of _Œnone_. +Presently she awoke from her delicious trance and they moved homewards in +silence. Frank was a little uneasy. + +‘I do greatly admire Tennyson,’ he said. + +‘What do you admire? You have hardly looked at him.’ + +‘I saw a very good review of him. I will look that review up, by the +way, before I come down again. Mr Maurice was talking about it.’ + +Madge had a desire to say something, but she did not know what to say, a +burden lay upon her chest. It was that weight which presses there when +we are alone with those with whom we are not strangers, but with whom we +are not completely at home, and she actually found herself impatient and +half-desirous of solitude. This must be criminal or disease, she thought +to herself, and she forcibly recalled Frank’s virtues. She was so far +successful that when they parted and he kissed her, she was more than +usually caressing, and her ardent embrace, at least for the moment, +relieved that unpleasant sensation in the region of the heart. When he +had gone she reasoned with herself. What a miserable counterfeit of +love, she argued, is mere intellectual sympathy, a sympathy based on +books! What did Miranda know about Ferdinand’s ‘views’ on this or that +subject? Love is something independent of ‘views.’ It is an attraction +which has always been held to be inexplicable, but whatever it may be it +is not ‘views.’ She was becoming a little weary, she thought, of what +was called ‘culture.’ These creatures whom we know through Shakespeare +and Goethe are ghostly. What have we to do with them? It is idle work +to read or even to talk fine things about them. It ends in nothing. +What we really have to go through and that which goes through it are +interesting, but not circumstances and character impossible to us. When +Frank spoke of his business, which he understood, he was wise, and some +observations which he made the other day, on the management of his +workpeople, would have been thought original if they had been printed. +The true artist knows that his hero must be a character shaping events +and shaped by them, and not a babbler about literature. Frank, also, was +so susceptible. He liked to hear her read to him, and her enthusiasm +would soon be his. Moreover, how gifted he was, unconsciously, with all +that makes a man admirable, with courage, with perfect unselfishness! +How handsome he was, and then his passion for her! She had read +something of passion, but she never knew till now what the white +intensity of its flame in a man could be. She was committed, too, +happily committed; it was an engagement. + +Thus, whenever doubt obtruded itself, she poured a self-raised tide over +it and concealed it. Alas! it could not be washed away; it was a little +sharp rock based beneath the ocean’s depths, and when the water ran low +its dark point reappeared. She was more successful, however, than many +women would have been, for, although her interest in ideas was deep, +there was fire in her blood, and Frank’s arm around her made the world +well nigh disappear; her surrender was entire, and if Sinai had thundered +in her ears she would not have heard. She was destitute of that power, +which her sister possessed, of surveying herself from a distance. On the +contrary, her emotion enveloped her, and the safeguard of reflection on +it was impossible to her. + +As to Frank, no doubt ever approached him. He was intoxicated, and +beside himself. He had been brought up in a clean household, knowing +nothing of the vice by which so many young men are overcome, and woman +hitherto had been a mystery to him. Suddenly he found himself the +possessor of a beautiful creature, whose lips it was lawful to touch and +whose heartbeats he could feel as he pressed her to his breast. It was +permitted him to be alone with her, to sit on the floor and rest his head +on her knees, and he had ventured to capture one of her slippers and +carry it off to London, where he kept it locked up amongst his treasures. +If he had been drawn over Fenmarket sluice in a winter flood he would not +have been more incapable of resistance. + +Every now and then Clara thought she discerned in Madge that she was not +entirely content, but the cloud-shadows swept past so rapidly and were +followed by such dazzling sunshine that she was perplexed and hoped that +her sister’s occasional moodiness might be due to parting and absence, or +the anticipation of them. She never ventured to say anything about Frank +to Madge, for there was something in her which forbade all approach from +that side. Once when he had shown his ignorance of what was so familiar +to the Hopgoods, and Clara had expected some sign of dissatisfaction from +her sister, she appeared ostentatiously to champion him against +anticipated criticism. Clara interpreted the warning and was silent, +but, after she had left the room with her mother in order that the lovers +might be alone, she went upstairs and wept many tears. Ah! it is a sad +experience when the nearest and dearest suspects that we are aware of +secret disapproval, knows that it is justifiable, throws up a rampart and +becomes defensively belligerent. From that moment all confidence is at +an end. Without a word, perhaps, the love and friendship of years +disappear, and in the place of two human beings transparent to each +other, there are two who are opaque and indifferent. Bitter, bitter! If +the cause of separation were definite disagreement upon conduct or +belief, we could pluck up courage, approach and come to an understanding, +but it is impossible to bring to speech anything which is so close to the +heart, and there is, therefore, nothing left for us but to submit and be +dumb. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +IT was now far into June, and Madge and Frank extended their walks and +returned later. He had come down to spend his last Sunday with the +Hopgoods before starting with his father for Germany, and on the Monday +they were to leave London. + +Wordsworth was one of the divinities at Stoke Newington, and just before +Frank visited Fenmarket that week, he had heard the _Intimations of +Immortality_ read with great fervour. Thinking that Madge would be +pleased with him if she found that he knew something about that famous +Ode, and being really smitten with some of the passages in it, he learnt +it, and just as they were about to turn homewards one sultry evening he +suddenly began to repeat it, and declaimed it to the end with much +rhetorical power. + +‘Bravo!’ said Madge, ‘but, of all Wordsworth’s poems, that is the one for +which I believe I care the least.’ + +Frank’s countenance fell. + +‘Oh, me! I thought it was just what would suit you.’ + +‘No, not particularly. There are some noble lines in it; for example— + + “And custom lie upon thee with a weight, + Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!” + +But the very title—_Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of +Early Childhood_—is unmeaning to me, and as for the verse which is in +everybody’s mouth— + + “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;” + +and still worse the vision of “that immortal sea,” and of the children +who “sport upon the shore,” they convey nothing whatever to me. I find +though they are much admired by the clergy of the better sort, and by +certain religiously-disposed people, to whom thinking is distasteful or +impossible. Because they cannot definitely believe, they fling +themselves with all the more fervour upon these cloudy Wordsworthian +phrases, and imagine they see something solid in the coloured fog.’ + +It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, but +in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary to his usual wont, was +silent. There was something undiscovered in Madge, a region which he had +not visited and perhaps could not enter. She discerned in an instant +what she had done, and in an instant repented. He had taken so much +pains with a long piece of poetry for her sake: was not that better than +agreement in a set of propositions? Scores of persons might think as she +thought about the ode, who would not spend a moment in doing anything to +gratify her. It was delightful also to reflect that Frank imagined she +would sympathise with anything written in that temper. She recalled what +she herself had said when somebody gave Clara a copy in ‘Parian’ of a +Greek statue, a thing coarse in outline and vulgar. Clara was about to +put it in a cupboard in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so pathetically +that the donor had in a measure divined what her sister loved, and had +done her best, although she had made a mistake, that finally the statue +was placed on the bedroom mantelpiece. Madge’s heart overflowed, and +Frank had never attracted her so powerfully as at that moment. She took +his hand softly in hers. + +‘Frank,’ she murmured, as she bent her head towards him, ‘it is really a +lovely poem.’ + +Suddenly there was a flash of forked lightning at some distance, followed +in a few seconds by a roll of thunder increasing in intensity until the +last reverberation seemed to shake the ground. They took refuge in a +little barn and sat down. Madge, who was timid and excited in a +thunderstorm, closed her eyes to shield herself from the glare. + +The tumult in the heavens lasted for nearly two hours and, when it was +over, Madge and Frank walked homewards without speaking a word for a good +part of the way. + +‘I cannot, cannot go to-morrow,’ he suddenly cried, as they neared the +town. + +‘You _shall_ go,’ she replied calmly. + +‘But, Madge, think of me in Germany, think what my dreams and thoughts +will be—you here—hundreds of miles between us.’ + +She had never seen him so shaken with terror. + +‘You _shall_ go; not another word.’ + +‘I must say something—what can I say? My God, my God, have mercy on me!’ + +‘Mercy! mercy!’ she repeated, half unconsciously, and then rousing +herself, exclaimed, ‘You shall not say it; I will not hear; now, +good-bye.’ + +They had come to the door; he went inside; she took his face between her +hands, left one kiss on his forehead, led him back to the doorway and he +heard the bolts drawn. When he recovered himself he went to the ‘Crown +and Sceptre’ and tried to write a letter to her, but the words looked +hateful, horrible on the paper, and they were not the words he wanted. +He dared not go near the house the next morning, but as he passed it on +the coach he looked at the windows. Nobody was to be seen, and that +night he left England. + +‘Did you hear,’ said Clara to her mother at breakfast, ‘that the +lightning struck one of the elms in the avenue at Mrs Martin’s yesterday +evening and splintered it to the ground?’ + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +IN a few days Madge received the following letter:— + + ‘FRANKFORT, O. M., + HÔTEL WAIDENBUSCH. + + ‘MY DEAREST MADGE,—I do not know how to write to you. I have begun a + dozen letters but I cannot bring myself to speak of what lies before + me, hiding the whole world from me. Forgiveness! how is any + forgiveness possible? But Madge, my dearest Madge, remember that my + love is intenser than ever. What has happened has bound you closer + to me. I _implore_ you to let me come back. I will find a thousand + excuses for returning, and we will marry. We had vowed marriage to + each other and why should not our vows be fulfilled? Marriage, + marriage _at once_. You will not, you _cannot_, no, you _cannot_, + you must see you cannot refuse. My father wishes to make this town + his headquarters for ten days. Write by return for mercy’s + sake.—Your ever devoted + + ‘FRANK.’ + +The reply came only a day late. + + ‘MY DEAR FRANK,—Forgiveness! Who is to be forgiven? Not you. You + believed you loved me, but I doubted my love, and I know now that no + true love for you exists. We must part, and part forever. Whatever + wrong may have been done, marriage to avoid disgrace would be a wrong + to both of us infinitely greater. I owe you an expiation; your + release is all I can offer, and it is insufficient. I can only plead + that I was deaf and blind. By some miracle, I cannot tell how, my + ears and eyes are opened, and I hear and see. It is not the first + time in my life that the truth has been revealed to me suddenly, + supernaturally, I may say, as if in a vision, and I know the + revelation is authentic. There must be no wavering, no + half-measures, and I absolutely forbid another letter from you. If + one arrives I must, for the sake of my own peace and resolution, + refuse to read it. You have simply to announce to your father that + the engagement is at an end, and give no reasons.—Your faithful + friend + + ‘MADGE HOPGOOD.’ + +Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and it was +returned unopened. + +For a long time Frank was almost incapable of reflection. He dwelt on an +event which might happen, but which he dared not name; and if it should +happen! Pictures of his father, his home his father’s friends, +Fenmarket, the Hopgood household, passed before him with such wild +rapidity and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if the reins had +dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away to madness. + +He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the imagination, +tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise schemes by which, +although he was prohibited from writing to Madge, he might obtain news of +her. Her injunction might not be final. There was but one hope for him, +one possibility of extrication, one necessity—their marriage. It _must_ +be. He dared not think of what might be the consequences if they did not +marry. + +Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of the +rupture, but one morning—nearly two months had now passed—Clara did not +appear at breakfast. + +‘Clara is not here,’ said Mrs Hopgood; ‘she was very tired last night, +perhaps it is better not to disturb her.’ + +‘Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still sleeps.’ + +Madge went upstairs, opened her sister’s door noiselessly, saw that she +was not awake, and returned. When breakfast was over she rose, and after +walking up and down the room once or twice, seated herself in the +armchair by her mother’s side. Her mother drew herself a little nearer, +and took Madge’s hand gently in her own. + +‘Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your mother?’ + +‘Nothing.’ + +‘Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? Do you not think I +ought to know something about such an event in the life of one so close +to me?’ + +‘I broke off the engagement: we were not suited to one another.’ + +‘I thought as much; I honour you; a thousand times better that you should +separate now than find out your mistake afterwards when it is +irrevocable. Thank God, He has given you such courage! But you must +have suffered—I know you must;’ and she tenderly kissed her daughter. + +‘Oh, mother! mother!’ cried Madge, ‘what is the worst—at least to—you—the +worst that can happen to a woman?’ + +Mrs Hopgood did not speak; something presented itself which she refused +to recognise, but she shuddered. Before she could recover herself Madge +broke out again,— + +‘It has happened to me; mother, your daughter has wrecked your peace for +ever!’ + +‘And he has abandoned you?’ + +‘No, no; I told you it was I who left him.’ + +It was Mrs Hopgood’s custom, when any evil news was suddenly communicated +to her, to withdraw at once if possible to her own room. She detached +herself from Madge, rose, and, without a word, went upstairs and locked +her door. The struggle was terrible. So much thought, so much care, +such an education, such noble qualities, and they had not accomplished +what ordinary ignorant Fenmarket mothers and daughters were able to +achieve! This fine life, then, was a failure, and a perfect example of +literary and artistic training had gone the way of the common wenches +whose affiliation cases figured in the county newspaper. She was shaken +and bewildered. She was neither orthodox nor secular. She was too +strong to be afraid that what she disbelieved could be true, and yet a +fatal weakness had been disclosed in what had been set up as its +substitute. She could not treat her child as a sinner who was to be +tortured into something like madness by immitigable punishment, but, on +the other hand, she felt that this sorrow was unlike other sorrows and +that it could never be healed. For some time she was powerless, blown +this way and that way by contradictory storms, and unable to determine +herself to any point whatever. She was not, however, new to the tempest. +She had lived and had survived when she thought she must have gone down. +She had learned the wisdom which the passage through desperate straits +can bring. At last she prayed and in a few minutes a message was +whispered to her. She went into the breakfast-room and seated herself +again by Madge. Neither uttered a word, but Madge fell down before her, +and, with a great cry, buried her face in her mother’s lap. She remained +kneeling for some time waiting for a rebuke, but none came. Presently +she felt smoothing hands on her head and the soft impress of lips. So +was she judged. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +IT was settled that they should leave Fenmarket. Their departure caused +but little surprise. They had scarcely any friends, and it was always +conjectured that people so peculiar would ultimately find their way to +London. They were particularly desirous to conceal their movements, and +therefore determined to warehouse their furniture in town, to take +furnished apartments there for three months, and then to move elsewhere. +Any letters which might arrive at Fenmarket for them during these three +months would be sent to them at their new address; nothing probably would +come afterwards, and as nobody in Fenmarket would care to take any +trouble about them, their trace would become obliterated. They found +some rooms near Myddelton Square, Pentonville, not a particularly +cheerful place, but they wished to avoid a more distant suburb, and +Pentonville was cheap. Fortunately for them they had no difficulty +whatever in getting rid of the Fenmarket house for the remainder of their +term. + +For a little while London diverted them after a fashion, but the absence +of household cares told upon them. They had nothing to do but to read +and to take dismal walks through Islington and Barnsbury, and the gloom +of the outlook thickened as the days became shorter and the smoke began +to darken the air. Madge was naturally more oppressed than the others, +not only by reason of her temperament, but because she was the author of +the trouble which had befallen them. Her mother and Clara did everything +to sustain and to cheer her. They possessed the rare virtue of +continuous tenderness. The love, which with many is an inspiration, was +with them their own selves, from which they could not be separated; a +harsh word could not therefore escape from them. It was as impossible as +that there should be any failure in the pressure with which the rocks +press towards the earth’s centre. Madge at times was very far gone in +melancholy. How different this thing looked when it was close at hand; +when she personally was to be the victim! She had read about it in +history, the surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it had been +turned to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent a charm to +innumerable mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing like the poetry +or mythology, and threatened to ruin her own history altogether. Nor +would it be her own history solely, but more or less that of her mother +and sister. + +Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have been +concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would have found her +Redeemer and would have been comparatively at peace; she would have +acknowledged herself convicted of infinite sin, and hell would have been +opened before her, but above the sin and the hell she would have seen the +distinct image of the Mediator abolishing both. Popular theology makes +personal salvation of such immense importance that, in comparison +therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to others of our misdeeds. +The sense of cruel injustice to those who loved her remained with Madge +perpetually. + +To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; sometimes her +mother and sister went with her; sometimes she insisted on going alone. +One autumn morning, she found herself at Letherhead, the longest trip she +had undertaken, for there were scarcely any railways then. She wandered +about till she discovered a footpath which took her to a mill-pond, which +spread itself out into a little lake. It was fed by springs which burst +up through the ground. She watched at one particular point, and saw the +water boil up with such force that it cleared a space of a dozen yards in +diameter from every weed, and formed a transparent pool just tinted with +that pale azure which is peculiar to the living fountains which break out +from the bottom of the chalk. She was fascinated for a moment by the +spectacle, and reflected upon it, but she passed on. In about +three-quarters of an hour she found herself near a church, larger than an +ordinary village church, and, as she was tired, and the gate of the +church porch was open, she entered and sat down. The sun streamed in +upon her, and some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the +adjoining open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and looked in +her face. The quiet was complete, and the air so still, that a yellow +leaf dropping here and there from the churchyard elms—just beginning to +turn—fell quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at heart and +despairing, she could not help being touched, and she thought to herself +how strange the world is—so transcendent both in glory and horror; a +world capable of such scenes as those before her, and a world in which +such suffering as hers could be; a world infinite both ways. The porch +gate was open because the organist was about to practise, and in another +instant she was listening to the _Kyrie_ from Beethoven’s Mass in C. She +knew it; Frank had tried to give her some notion of it on the piano, and +since she had been in London she had heard it at St Mary’s, Moorfields. +She broke down and wept, but there was something new in her sorrow, and +it seemed as if a certain Pity overshadowed her. + +She had barely recovered herself when she saw a woman, apparently about +fifty, coming towards her with a wicker basket on her arm. She sat down +beside Madge, put her basket on the ground, and wiped her face with her +apron. + +‘Marnin’ miss! its rayther hot walkin’, isn’t it? I’ve come all the way +from Darkin, and I’m goin’ to Great Oakhurst. That’s a longish step +there and back again; not that this is the nearest way, but I don’t like +climbing them hills, and then when I get to Letherhead I shall have a +lift in a cart.’ + +Madge felt bound to say something as the sunburnt face looked kind and +motherly. + +‘I suppose you live at Great Oakhurst?’ + +‘Yes. I do: my husband, God bless him! he was a kind of foreman at The +Towers, and when he died I was left alone and didn’t know what to be at, +as both my daughters were out and one married; so I took the general shop +at Great Oakhurst, as Longwood used to have, but it don’t pay for I ain’t +used to it, and the house is too big for me, and there isn’t nobody +proper to mind it when I goes over to Darkin for anything.’ + +‘Are you going to leave?’ + +‘Well, I don’t quite know yet, miss, but I thinks I shall live with my +daughter in London. She’s married a cabinetmaker in Great Ormond Street: +they let lodgings, too. Maybe you know that part?’ + +‘No, I do not.’ + +‘You don’t live in London, then?’ + +‘Yes, I do. I came from London this morning.’ + +‘The Lord have mercy on us, did you though! I suppose, then, you’re +a-visitin’ here. I know most of the folk hereabouts.’ + +‘No: I am going back this afternoon.’ + +Her interrogator was puzzled and her curiosity stimulated. Presently she +looked in Madge’s face. + +‘Ah! my poor dear, you’ll excuse me, I don’t mean to be forward, but I +see you’ve been a-cryin’: there’s somebody buried here.’ + +‘No.’ + +That was all she could say. The walk from Letherhead, and the excitement +had been too much for her and she fainted. Mrs Caffyn, for that was her +name, was used to fainting fits. She was often ‘a bit faint’ herself, +and she instantly loosened Madge’s gown, brought out some smelling-salts +and also a little bottle of brandy and water. Something suddenly struck +her. She took up Madge’s hand: there was no wedding ring on it. + +Presently her patient recovered herself. + +‘Look you now, my dear; you aren’t noways fit to go back to London +to-day. If you was my child you shouldn’t do it for all the gold in the +Indies, no, nor you sha’n’t now. I shouldn’t have a wink of sleep this +night if I let you go, and if anything were to happen to you it would be +me as ’ud have to answer for it.’ + +‘But I must go; my mother and sister will not know what has become of +me.’ + +‘You leave that to me; I tell you again as you can’t go. I’ve been a +mother myself, and I haven’t had children for nothing. I was just +a-goin’ to send a little parcel up to my daughter by the coach, and her +husband’s a-goin’ to meet it. She’d left something behind last week when +she was with me, and I thought I’d get a bit of fresh butter here for her +and put along with it. They make better butter in the farm in the bottom +there, than they do at Great Oakhurst. A note inside now will get to +your mother all right; you have a bit of something to eat and drink here, +and you’ll be able to walk along of me just into Letherhead, and then you +can ride to Great Oakhurst; it’s only about two miles, and you can stay +there all night.’ + +Madge was greatly touched; she took Mrs Caffyn’s hands in hers, pressed +them both and consented. She was very weary, and the stamp on Mrs +Caffyn’s countenance was indubitable; it was evidently no forgery, but of +royal mintage. They walked slowly to Letherhead, and there they found +the carrier’s cart, which took them to Great Oakhurst. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +MRS CAFFYN’S house was a roomy old cottage near the church, with a +bow-window in which were displayed bottles of ‘suckers,’ and of Day & +Martin’s blacking, cotton stuffs, a bag of nuts and some mugs, cups and +saucers. Inside were salt butter, washing-blue, drapery, treacle, +starch, tea, tobacco and snuff, cheese, matches, bacon, and a few drugs, +such as black draught, magnesia, pills, sulphur, dill-water, Dalby’s +Carminative, and steel-drops. There was also a small stock of +writing-paper, string and tin ware. A boy was behind the counter. When +Mrs Caffyn was out he always asked the customers who desired any article, +the sale of which was in any degree an art, to call again when she +returned. He went as far as those things which were put up in packets, +such as what were called ‘grits’ for making gruel, and he was also +authorised to venture on pennyworths of liquorice and peppermints, but +the sale of half-a-dozen yards of cotton print was as much above him as +the negotiation of a treaty of peace would be to a messenger in the +Foreign Office. In fact, nobody, excepting children, went into the shop +when Mrs Caffyn was not to be seen there, and, if she had to go to +Dorking or Letherhead on business, she always chose the middle of the +day, when the folk were busy at their homes or in the fields. Poor +woman! she was much tried. Half the people who dealt with her were in +her debt, but she could not press them for her money. During winter-time +they were discharged by the score from their farms, but as they were not +sufficiently philosophic, or sufficiently considerate for their fellows +to hang or drown themselves, they were obliged to consume food, and to +wear clothes, for which they tried to pay by instalments during spring, +summer and autumn. Mrs Caffyn managed to make both ends meet by the help +of two or three pigs, by great economy, and by letting some of her +superfluous rooms. Great Oakhurst was not a show place nor a Spa, but +the Letherhead doctor had once recommended her to a physician in London, +who occasionally sent her a patient who wanted nothing but rest and fresh +air. She also, during the shooting-season, was often asked to find a +bedroom for visitors to The Towers. + +She might have done better had she been on thoroughly good terms with the +parson. She attended church on Sunday morning with tolerable regularity. +She never went inside a dissenting chapel, and was not heretical on any +definite theological point, but the rector and she were not friends. She +had lived in Surrey ever since she was a child, but she was not Surrey +born. Both her father and mother came from the north country, and +migrated southwards when she was very young. They were better educated +than the southerners amongst whom they came; and although their daughter +had no schooling beyond what was obtainable in a Surrey village of that +time, she was distinguished by a certain superiority which she had +inherited or acquired from her parents. She was never subservient to the +rector after the fashion of her neighbours; she never curtsied to him, +and if he passed and nodded she said ‘Marnin’, sir,’ in just the same +tone as that in which she said it to the smallest of the Great Oakhurst +farmers. Her church-going was an official duty incumbent upon her as the +proprietor of the only shop in the parish. She had nothing to do with +church matters except on Sunday, and she even went so far as to neglect +to send for the rector when one of her children lay dying. She was +attacked for the omission, but she defended herself. + +‘What was the use when the poor dear was only seven year old? What call +was there for him to come to a blessed innocent like that? I did tell +him to look in when my husband was took, for I know as before we were +married there was something atween him and that gal Sanders. He never +would own up to me about it, and I thought as he might to a clergyman, +and, if he did, it would ease his mind and make it a bit better for him +afterwards; but, Lord! it warn’t no use, for he went off and we didn’t so +much as hear her name, not even when he was a-wandering. I says to +myself when the parson left, “What’s the good of having you?”’ + +Mrs Caffyn was a Christian, but she was a disciple of St James rather +than of St Paul. She believed, of course, the doctrines of the +Catechism, in the sense that she denied none, and would have assented to +all if she had been questioned thereon; but her belief that ‘faith, if it +hath not works, is dead, being alone,’ was something very vivid and very +practical. + +Her estimate, too, of the relative values of the virtues and of the +relative sinfulness of sins was original, and the rector therefore told +all his parishioners that she was little better than a heathen. The +common failings in that part of the country amongst the poor were +Saturday-night drunkenness and looseness in the relations between the +young men and young women. Mrs Caffyn’s indignation never rose to the +correct boiling point against these crimes. The rector once ventured to +say, as the case was next door to her,— + +‘It is very sad, is it not, Mrs Caffyn, that Polesden should be so +addicted to drink. I hope he did not disturb you last Saturday night. I +have given the constable directions to look after the street more closely +on Saturday evening, and if Polesden again offends he must be taken up.’ + +Mrs Caffyn was behind her own counter. She had just served a customer +with two ounces of Dutch cheese, and she sat down on her stool. Being +rather a heavy woman she always sat down when she was not busy, and she +never rose merely to talk. + +‘Yes, it is sad, sir, and Polesden isn’t no particular friend of mine, +but I tell you what’s sad too, sir, and that’s the way them people are +mucked up in that cottage. Why, their living room opens straight on the +road, and the wind comes in fit to blow your head off, and when he goes +home o’ nights, there’s them children a-squalling, and he can’t bide +there and do nothing.’ + +‘I am afraid, though, Mrs Caffyn, there must be something radically wrong +with that family. I suppose you know all about the eldest daughter?’ + +‘Yes, sir, I _have_ heard it: it wouldn’t be Great Oakhurst if I hadn’t, +but p’r’aps, sir, you’ve never been upstairs in that house, and yet a +house it isn’t. There’s just two sleeping-rooms, that’s all; it’s +shameful, it isn’t decent. Well, that gal, she goes away to service. +Maybe, sir, them premises at the farm are also unbeknown to you. In the +back kitchen there’s a broadish sort of shelf as Jim climbs into o’ +nights, and it has a rail round it to keep you from a-falling out, and +there’s a ladder as they draws up in the day as goes straight up from +that kitchen to the gal’s bedroom door. It’s downright disgraceful, and +I don’t believe the Lord A’mighty would be marciful to neither of _us_ if +we was tried like that.’ + +Mrs Caffyn bethought herself of the ‘us’ and was afraid that even she had +gone a little too far; ‘leastways, speaking for myself, sir,’ she added. + +The rector turned rather red, and repented his attempt to enlist Mrs +Caffyn. + +‘If the temptations are so great, Mrs Caffyn, that is all the more reason +why those who are liable to them should seek the means which are provided +in order that they may be overcome. I believe the Polesdens are very lax +attendants at church, and I don’t think they ever communicated.’ + +Mrs Polesden at that moment came in for an ounce of tea, and as Mrs +Caffyn rose to weigh it, the rector departed with a stiff ‘good-morning,’ +made to do duty for both women. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +MRS CAFFYN persuaded Madge to go to bed at once, after giving her +‘something to comfort her.’ In the morning her kind hostess came to her +bedside. + +‘You’ve got a mother, haven’t you—leastways, I know you have, because you +wrote to her.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘And she’s fond of you, maybe?’ + +‘Oh, yes.’ + +‘That’s a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back in the cart to +Letherhead, and you’ll catch the Darkin coach to London.’ + +‘You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?’ + +‘Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would just look as if +I’d trapped you here to get something out of you. Pay! no, not a penny.’ + +‘I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will not offer +anything. I don’t know how to thank you enough.’ + +Madge took Mrs Caffyn’s hand in hers and pressed it firmly. + +‘Besides, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets a little, ‘you +won’t mind my saying it, I expex you are in trouble. There’s something +on your mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it is.’ + +Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; Mrs +Caffyn sat between her and the window. + +‘Look you here, my dear; don’t you suppose I meant to say anything to +hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed to you like; I +couldn’t help it. I see’d what was the matter, but I was all the more +drawed, and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference. That’s +like me; sometimes I’m drawed that way and sometimes t’other way, and +it’s never no use for me to try to go against it. I ain’t a-going to say +anything more to you; God-A’mighty, He’s above us all; but p’r’aps you +may be comm’ this way again some day, and then you’ll look in.’ + +Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs Caffyn’s hand, but +was silent. + +The next morning, after Madge’s return, Mrs Cork, the landlady, presented +herself at the sitting-room door and ‘wished to speak with Mrs Hopgood +for a minute.’ + +‘Come in, Mrs Cork.’ + +‘Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer as you should come downstairs.’ + +Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She had a face of +which it was impossible to recollect, when it had been seen even a dozen +times, any feature except the eyes, which were steel-blue, a little bluer +than the faceted head of the steel poker in her parlour, but just as +hard. She lived in the basement with a maid, much like herself but a +little more human. Although the front underground room was furnished Mrs +Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions, and a kind of apron +of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly all the year. She was a +woman of what she called regular habits. No lodger was ever permitted to +transgress her rules, or to have meals ten minutes before or ten minutes +after the appointed time. She had undoubtedly been married, but who Cork +could have been was a marvel. Why he died, and why there were never any +children were no marvels. At two o’clock her grate was screwed up to the +narrowest possible dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves +and cabbage stalks were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. No meat, +by the way, was ever roasted—it was considered wasteful—everything was +baked or boiled. After half-past four not a bit of anything that was not +cold was allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the first of +April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out the moment +tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very well and Clara wished +to give her mother something warm. She rang the bell and asked for hot +water. Maria came up and disappeared without a word after receiving the +message. Presently she returned. + +‘Mrs Cork, miss, wishes me to tell you as it was never understood as ’ot +water would be required after tea, and she hasn’t got any.’ + +Mrs Hopgood had a fire, although it was not yet the thirty-first of +October, for it was very damp and raw. She had with much difficulty +induced Mrs Cork to concede this favour (which probably would not have +been granted if the coals had not yielded a profit of threepence a +scuttleful), and Clara, therefore, asked if she could not have the kettle +upstairs. Again Maria disappeared and returned. + +‘Mrs Cork says, miss, as it’s very ill-convenient as the kettle is +cleaned up agin to-morrow, and if you can do without it she will be +obliged.’ + +It was of no use to continue the contest, and Clara bethought herself of +a little ‘Etna’ she had in her bedroom. She went to the druggist’s, +bought some methylated spirit, and obtained what she wanted. + +Mrs Cork had one virtue and one weakness. Her virtue was cleanliness, +but she persecuted the ‘blacks,’ not because she objected to dirt as +dirt, but because it was unauthorised, appeared without permission at +irregular hours, and because the glittering polish on varnished paint and +red mahogany was a pleasure to her. She liked the dirt, too, in a way, +for she enjoyed the exercise of her ill-temper on it and the pursuit of +it to destruction. Her weakness was an enormous tom-cat which had a bell +round its neck and slept in a basket in the kitchen, the best-behaved and +most moral cat in the parish. At half-past nine every evening it was let +out into the back-yard and vanished. At ten precisely it was heard to +mew and was immediately admitted. Not once in a twelvemonth did that cat +prolong its love making after five minutes to ten. + +Mrs Hopgood went upstairs to her room, Mrs Cork following and closing the +door. + +‘If you please, ma’am, I wish to give you notice to leave this day week.’ + +‘What is the matter, Mrs Cork?’ + +‘Well, ma’am, for one thing, I didn’t know as you’d bring a bird with +you.’ + +It was a pet bird belonging to Madge. + +‘But what harm does the bird do? It gives no trouble; my daughter +attends to it.’ + +‘Yes, ma’am, but it worrits my Joseph—the cat, I mean. I found him the +other mornin’ on the table eyin’ it, and I can’t a-bear to see him +urritated.’ + +‘I should hardly have thought that a reason for parting with good +lodgers.’ + +Mrs Hopgood had intended to move, as before explained, but she did not +wish to go till the three months had expired. + +‘I don’t say as that is everything, but if you wish me to tell you the +truth, Miss Madge is not a person as I like to keep in the house. I wish +you to know’—Mrs Cork suddenly became excited and venomous—‘that I’m a +respectable woman, and have always let my apartments to respectable +people, and do you think I should ever let them to respectable people +again if it got about as I had had anybody as wasn’t respectable? Where +was she last night? And do you suppose as me as has been a married woman +can’t see the condition she’s in? I say as you, Mrs Hopgood, ought to be +ashamed of yourself for bringing of such a person into a house like mine, +and you’ll please vacate these premises on the day named.’ She did not +wait for an answer, but banged the door after her, and went down to her +subterranean den. + +Mrs Hopgood did not tell her children the true reason for leaving. She +merely said that Mrs Cork had been very impertinent, and that they must +look out for other rooms. Madge instantly recollected Great Ormond +Street, but she did not know the number, and oddly enough she had +completely forgotten Mrs Caffyn’s name. It was a peculiar name, she had +heard it only once, she had not noticed it over the door, and her +exhaustion may have had something to do with her loss of memory. She +could not therefore write, and Mrs Hopgood determined that she herself +would go to Great Oakhurst. She had another reason for her journey. She +wished her kind friend there to see that Madge had really a mother who +cared for her. She was anxious to confirm Madge’s story, and Mrs +Caffyn’s confidence. Clara desired to go also, but Mrs Hopgood would not +leave Madge alone, and the expense of a double fare was considered +unnecessary. + +When Mrs Hopgood came to Letherhead on her return, the coach was full +inside, and she was obliged to ride outside, although the weather was +cold and threatening. In about half an hour it began to rain heavily, +and by the time she was in Pentonville she was wet through. The next +morning she ought to have lain in bed, but she came down at her +accustomed hour as Mrs Cork was more than usually disagreeable, and it +was settled that they would leave at once if the rooms in Great Ormond +Street were available. Clara went there directly after breakfast, and +saw Mrs Marshall, who had already received an introductory letter from +her mother. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +THE Marshall family included Marshall and his wife. He was rather a +small man, with blackish hair, small lips, and with a nose just a little +turned up at the tip. As we have been informed, he was a cabinet-maker. +He worked for very good shops, and earned about two pounds a week. He +read books, but he did not know their value, and often fancied he had +made a great discovery on a bookstall of an author long ago superseded +and worthless. He belonged to a mechanic’s institute, and was fond of +animal physiology; heard courses of lectures on it at the institute, and +had studied two or three elementary handbooks. He found in a second-hand +dealer’s shop a model, which could be taken to pieces, of the inside of +the human body. He had also bought a diagram of a man, showing the +circulation, and this he had hung in his bedroom, his mother-in-law +objecting most strongly on the ground that its effect on his wife was +injurious. He had a notion that the world might be regenerated if men +and women were properly instructed in physiological science, and if +before marriage they would study their own physical peculiarities, and +those of their intended partners. The crossing of peculiarities +nevertheless presented difficulties. A man with long legs surely ought +to choose a woman with short legs, but if a man who was mathematical +married a woman who was mathematical, the result might be a mathematical +prodigy. On the other hand the parents of the prodigy might each have +corresponding qualities, which, mixed with the mathematical tendency, +would completely nullify it. The path of duty therefore was by no means +plain. However, Marshall was sure that great cities dwarfed their +inhabitants, and as he himself was not so tall as his father, and, +moreover, suffered from bad digestion, and had a tendency to ‘run to +head,’ he determined to select as his wife a ‘daughter of the soil,’ to +use his own phrase, above the average height, with a vigorous +constitution and plenty of common sense. She need not be bookish, ‘he +could supply all that himself.’ Accordingly, he married Sarah Caffyn. +His mother and Mrs Caffyn had been early friends. He was not mistaken in +Sarah. She was certainly robust; she was a shrewd housekeeper, and she +never read anything, except now and then a paragraph or two in the weekly +newspaper, notwithstanding (for there were no children), time hung rather +heavily on her hands. One child had been born, but to Marshall’s +surprise and disappointment it was a poor, rickety thing, and died before +it was a twelvemonth old. + +Mrs Marshall was not a very happy woman. Marshall was a great politician +and spent many of his evenings away from home at political meetings. He +never informed her what he had been doing, and if he had told her, she +would neither have understood nor cared anything about it. At Great +Oakhurst she heard everything and took an interest in it, and she often +wished with all her heart that the subject which occupied Marshall’s +thoughts was not Chartism but the draining of that heavy, rush-grown bit +of rough pasture that lay at the bottom of the village. He was very good +and kind to her, and she never imagined, before marriage, that he ought +to be more. She was sure that at Great Oakhurst she would have been +quite comfortable with him but somehow, in London, it was different. ‘I +don’t know how it is,’ she said one day, ‘the sort of husband as does for +the country doesn’t do for London.’ + +At Great Oakhurst, where the doors were always open into the yard and the +garden, where every house was merely a covered bit of the open space, +where people were always in and out, and women never sat down, except to +their meals, or to do a little stitching or sewing, it was really not +necessary, as Mrs Caffyn observed, that husband and wife should ‘hit it +so fine.’ Mrs Marshall hated all the conveniences of London. She +abominated particularly the taps, and longed to be obliged in all +weathers to go out to the well and wind up the bucket. She abominated +also the dust-bin, for it was a pleasure to be compelled—so at least she +thought it now—to walk down to the muck-heap and throw on it what the pig +could not eat. Nay, she even missed that corner of the garden against +the elder-tree, where the pig-stye was, for ‘you could smell the +elder-flowers there in the spring-time, and the pig-stye wasn’t as bad as +the stuffy back room in Great Ormond Street when three or four men were +in it.’ She did all she could to spend her energy on her cooking and +cleaning, but ‘there was no satisfaction in it,’ and she became much +depressed, especially after the child died. This was the main reason why +Mrs Caffyn determined to live with her. Marshall was glad she resolved +to come. His wife had her full share of the common sense he desired, but +the experiment had not altogether succeeded. He knew she was lonely, and +he was sorry for her, although he did not see how he could mend matters. +He reflected carefully, nothing had happened which was a surprise to him, +the relationship was what he had supposed it would be, excepting that the +child did not live and its mother was a little miserable. There was +nothing he would not do for her, but he really had nothing more to offer +her. + +Although Mrs Marshall had made up her mind that husbands and wives could +not be as contented with one another in the big city as they would be in +a village, a suspicion crossed her mind one day that, even in London, the +relationship might be different from her own. She was returning from +Great Oakhurst after a visit to her mother. She had stayed there for +about a month after her child’s death, and she travelled back to town +with a Letherhead woman, who had married a journeyman tanner, who +formerly worked in the Letherhead tan-yard, and had now moved to +Bermondsey, a horrid hole, worse than Great Ormond Street. Both Marshall +and the tanner were at the ‘Swan with Two Necks’ to meet the covered van, +and the tanner’s wife jumped out first. + +‘Hullo, old gal, here you are,’ cried the tanner, and clasped her in his +brown, bark-stained arms, giving her, nothing loth, two or three hearty +kisses. They were so much excited at meeting one another, that they +forgot their friends, and marched off without bidding them good-bye. Mrs +Marshall was welcomed in quieter fashion. + +‘Ah!’ she thought to herself. ‘Red Tom,’ as the tanner was called, ‘is +not used to London ways. They are, perhaps, correct for London, but +Marshall might now and then remember that I have not been brought up to +them.’ + +To return, however, to the Hopgoods. Before the afternoon they were in +their new quarters, happily for them, for Mrs Hopgood became worse. On +the morrow she was seriously ill, inflammation of the lungs appeared, and +in a week she was dead. What Clara and Madge suffered cannot be told +here. Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we discover that although +death is commonplace it is terribly original. We may have thought about +it all our lives, but if it comes close to us, it is quite a new, strange +thing to us, for which we are entirely unprepared. It may, perhaps, not +be the bare loss so much as the strength of the bond which is broken that +is the surprise, and we are debtors in a way to death for revealing +something in us which ordinary life disguises. Long after the first +madness of their grief had passed, Clara and Madge were astonished to +find how dependent they had been on their mother. They were grown-up +women accustomed to act for themselves, but they felt unsteady, and as if +deprived of customary support. The reference to her had been constant, +although it was often silent, and they were not conscious of it. A +defence from the outside waste desert had been broken down, their mother +had always seemed to intervene between them and the world, and now they +were exposed and shelterless. + +Three parts of Mrs Hopgood’s little income was mainly an annuity, and +Clara and Madge found that between them they had but seventy-five pounds +a year. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +FRANK could not rest. He wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; the letter +went to Mrs Cork’s, and was returned to him. He saw that the Hopgoods +had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, he determined at any cost +to go home. He accordingly alleged ill-health, a pretext not altogether +fictitious, and within a few days after the returned letter reached him +he was back at Stoke Newington. He went immediately to the address in +Pentonville which he found on the envelope, but was very shortly informed +by Mrs Cork that ‘she knew nothing whatever about them.’ He walked round +Myddelton Square, hopeless, for he had no clue whatever. + +What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused some young +men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was altogether different. +There was a chance of discovery, and if his crime should come to light +his whole future life would be ruined. He pictured his excommunication, +his father’s agony, and it was only when it seemed possible that the +water might close over the ghastly thing thrown in it, and no ripple +reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to breathe again. +Immediately he asked himself, however, _if_ he could live with his father +and wear a mask, and never betray his dreadful secret. So he wandered +homeward in the most miserable of all conditions; he was paralysed by the +intricacy of the coil which enveloped and grasped him. + +That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his father’s +house; and, of course, he was expected to assist. It would have suited +his mood better if he could have been in his own room, or out in the +streets, but absence would have been inconsistent with his disguise, and +might have led to betrayal. Consequently he was present, and the gaiety +of the company and the excitement of his favourite exercise, brought +about for a time forgetfulness of his trouble. Amongst the performers +was a distant cousin, Cecilia Morland, a young woman rather tall and +fully developed; not strikingly beautiful, but with a lovely +reddish-brown tint on her face, indicative of healthy, warm, rich +pulsations. She possessed a contralto voice, of a quality like that of a +blackbird, and it fell to her and to Frank to sing. She was dressed in a +fashion perhaps a little more courtly than was usual in the gatherings at +Mr Palmer’s house, and Frank, as he stood beside her at the piano, could +not restrain his eyes from straying every now and then a way from his +music to her shoulders, and once nearly lost himself, during a solo which +required a little unusual exertion, in watching the movement of a locket +and of what was for a moment revealed beneath it. He escorted her amidst +applause to a corner of the room, and the two sat down side by side. + +‘What a long time it is, Frank, since you and I sang that duet together. +We have seen nothing of you lately.’ + +‘Of course not; I was in Germany.’ + +‘Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do you remember that +summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, and the part songs which +astonished our neighbours just as it was growing dark? I recollect you +and I tried together that very duet for the first time with the old +lodging-house piano.’ + +Frank remembered that evening well. + +‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep time: what were +you dreaming about?’ + +‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? Let us go into the +conservatory for a minute.’ + +The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just inside, +and under the orange tree. + +‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical evening +this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must sing that duet +again, and sing it properly.’ + +He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, and +gave it to her. + +‘That is a pledge. It is very good of you.’ + +She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she +dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it; rose, +and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head nearly +touched her neck, quite unnecessarily. + +‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but mind, I shall keep this +flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall +return it faded and withered.’ + +‘Yes, I will come.’ + +‘Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. No bad +throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke for you—a dead +flower.’ + +_Play me false_! It was as if there were some stoppage in a main artery +to his brain. _Play me false_! It rang in his ears, and for a moment he +saw nothing but the scene at the Hall with Miranda. Fortunately for him, +somebody claimed Cecilia, and he slunk back into the greenhouse. + +One of Mr Palmer’s favourite ballads was _The Three Ravens_. Its pathos +unfits it for an ordinary drawing-room, but as the music at Mr Palmer’s +was not of the common kind, _The Three Ravens_ was put on the list for +that night. + + ‘_She was dead herself ere evensong time_. _With a down_, _hey + down_, _hey down_, + _God send every gentleman_ + _Such hawks_, _such hounds_, _and such a leman_. _With down_, _hey + down_, _hey down_.’ + +Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he +painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in a +mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for him stood +next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out into the garden and +went down to the further end, hiding himself behind the shrubs. +Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by hearing an +instrumental piece begin. + +Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for his +unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he considered to be his +duty. He recalled with an effort all Madge’s charms, mental and bodily, +and he tried to break his heart for her. He was in anguish because he +found that in order to feel as he ought to feel some effort was +necessary; that treason to her was possible, and because he had looked +with such eyes upon his cousin that evening. He saw himself as something +separate from himself, and although he knew what he saw to be flimsy and +shallow, he could do nothing to deepen it, absolutely nothing! It was +not the betrayal of that thunderstorm which now tormented him. He could +have represented that as a failure to be surmounted; he could have +repented it. It was his own inner being from which he revolted, from +limitations which are worse than crimes, for who, by taking thought, can +add one cubit to his stature? + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +THE next morning found Frank once more in Myddelton Square. He looked up +at the house; the windows were all shut, and the blinds were drawn down. +He had half a mind to call again, but Mrs Cork’s manner had been so +offensive and repellent that he desisted. Presently the door opened, and +Maria, the maid, came out to clean the doorsteps. Maria, as we have +already said, was a little more human than her mistress, and having +overheard the conversation between her and Frank at the first interview, +had come to the conclusion that Frank was to be pitied, and she took a +fancy to him. Accordingly, when he passed her, she looked up and +said,—‘Good-morning.’ Frank stopped, and returned her greeting. + +‘You was here the other day, sir, asking where them Hopgoods had gone.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Frank, eagerly, ‘do you know what has become of them?’ + +‘I helped the cabman with the boxes, and I heard Mrs Hopgood say “Great +Ormond Street,” but I have forgotten the number.’ + +‘Thank you very much.’ + +Frank gave the astonished and grateful Maria half-a-crown, and went off +to Great Ormond Street at once. He paced up and down the street half a +dozen times, hoping he might recognise in a window some ornament from +Fenmarket, or perhaps that he might be able to distinguish a piece of +Fenmarket furniture, but his search was in vain, for the two girls had +taken furnished rooms at the back of the house. His quest was not +renewed that week. What was there to be gained by going over the ground +again? Perhaps they might have found the lodgings unsuitable and have +moved elsewhere. At church on Sunday he met his cousin Cecilia, who +reminded him of his promise. + +‘See,’ she said, ‘here is the begonia. I put it in my prayer-book in +order to preserve it when I could keep it in water no longer, and it has +stained the leaf, and spoilt the Athanasian Creed. You will have it sent +to you if you are faithless. Reflect on your emotions, sir, when you +receive a dead flower, and you have the bitter consciousness also that +you have damaged my creed without any recompense.’ + +It was impossible not to protest that he had no thought of breaking his +engagement, although, to tell the truth, he had wished once or twice he +could find some way out of it. He walked with her down the churchyard +path to her carriage, assisted her into it, saluted her father and +mother, and then went home with his own people. + +The evening came, he sang with Cecilia, and it was observed, and he +himself observed it, how completely their voices harmonised. He was not +without a competitor, a handsome young baritone, who was much commended. +When he came to the end of his performance everybody said what a pity it +was that the following duet could not also be given, a duet which Cecilia +knew perfectly well. She was very much pressed to take her part with +him, but she steadily refused, on the ground that she had not practised +it, that she had already sung once, and that she was engaged to sing once +more with her cousin. Frank was sitting next to her, and she added, so +as to be heard by him alone, ‘He is no particular favourite of mine.’ + +There was no direct implication that Frank was a favourite, but an +inference was possible, and at least it was clear that she preferred to +reserve herself for him. Cecilia’s gifts, her fortune, and her gay, +happy face had made many a young fellow restless, and had brought several +proposals, none of which had been accepted. All this Frank knew, and how +could he repress something more than satisfaction when he thought that +perhaps he might have been the reason why nobody as yet had been able to +win her. She always called him Frank, for although they were not first +cousins, they were cousins. He generally called her Cecilia, but she was +Cissy in her own house. He was hardly close enough to venture upon the +more familiar nickname, but to-night, as they rose to go to the piano, he +said, and the baritone sat next to her,— + +‘Now, _Cissy_, once more.’ + +She looked at him with just a little start of surprise, and a smile +spread itself over her face. After they had finished, and she never sang +better, the baritone noticed that she seemed indisposed to return to her +former place, and she retired with Frank to the opposite corner of the +room. + +‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if being happy in a thing is a sign of being born +to do it. If it is, I am born to be a musician.’ + +‘I should say it is; if two people are quite happy in one another’s +company, it is as a sign they were born for one another.’ + +‘Yes, if they are sure they are happy. It is easier for me to be sure +that I am happier with a thing than with a person.’ + +‘Do you think so? Why?’ + +‘There is the uncertainty whether the person is happy with me. I cannot +be altogether happy with anybody unless I know I make him happy.’ + +‘What kind of person is he with whom you _could_ be without making him +happy?’ + +The baritone rose to the upper F with a clash of chords on the piano, and +the company broke up. Frank went home with but one thought in his +head—the thought of Cecilia. + +His bedroom faced the south-west, its windows were open, and when he +entered, the wind, which was gradually rising, struck him on the face and +nearly forced the door out of his hand; the fire in his blood was +quenched, and the image of Cecilia receded. He looked out, and saw +reflected on the low clouds the dull glare of the distant city. Just +over there was Great Ormond Street, and underneath that dim, red light, +like the light of a great house burning, was Madge Hopgood. He lay down, +turning over from side to side in the vain hope that by change of +position he might sleep. After about an hour’s feverish tossing, he just +lost himself, but not in that oblivion which slumber usually brought him. +He was so far awake that he saw what was around him, and yet, he was so +far released from the control of his reason that he did not recognise +what he saw, and it became part of a new scene created by his delirium. +The full moon, clearing away the clouds as she moved upwards, had now +passed round to the south, and just caught the white window-curtain +farthest from him. He half-opened his eyes, his mad dream still clung to +him, and there was the dead Madge before him, pale in death, and holding +a child in her arms! He distinctly heard himself scream as he started up +in affright; he could not tell where he was; the spectre faded and the +furniture and hangings transformed themselves into their familiar +reality. He could not lie down again, and rose and dressed himself. He +was not the man to believe that the ghost could be a revelation or a +prophecy, but, nevertheless, he was once more overcome with fear, a vague +dread partly justifiable by the fact of Madge, by the fact that his +father might soon know what had happened, that others also might know, +Cecilia for example, but partly also a fear going beyond all the facts, +and not to be accounted for by them, a strange, horrible trembling such +as men feel in earthquakes when the solid rock shakes, on which +everything rests. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +WHEN Frank came downstairs to breakfast the conversation turned upon his +return to Germany. He did not object to going, although it can hardly be +said that he willed to go. He was in that perilous condition in which +the comparison of reasons is impossible, and the course taken depends +upon some chance impulse of the moment, and is a mere drift. He could +not leave, however, in complete ignorance of Madge, and with no certainty +as to her future. He resolved therefore to make one more effort to +discover the house. That was all which he determined to do. What was to +happen when he had found it, he did not know. He was driven to do +something, which could not be of any importance, save for what must +follow, but he was unable to bring himself even to consider what was to +follow. He knew that at Fenmarket one or other of the sisters went out +soon after breakfast to make provision for the day, and perhaps, if they +kept up this custom, he might be successful in his search. He +accordingly stationed himself in Great Ormond Street at about half-past +nine, and kept watch from the Lamb’s Conduit Street end, shifting his +position as well as he could, in order to escape notice. He had not been +there half an hour when he saw a door open, and Madge came out and went +westwards. She turned down Devonshire Street as if on her way to +Holborn. He instantly ran back to Theobalds Road, and when he came to +the corner of Devonshire Street she was about ten yards from him, and he +faced her. She stopped irresolutely, as if she had a mind to return, but +as he approached her, and she found she was recognised, she came towards +him. + +‘Madge, Madge,’ he cried, ‘I want to speak to you. I must speak with +you.’ + +‘Better not; let me go.’ + +‘I say I _must_ speak to you.’ + +‘We cannot talk here; let me go.’ + +‘I must! I must! come with me.’ + +She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not refuse. He +called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word having been spoken during +those ten minutes, they were at St Paul’s. The morning service had just +begun, and they sat down in a corner far away from the worshippers. + +‘Oh, Madge,’ he began, ‘I implore you to take me back. I love you. I do +love you, and—and—I cannot leave you.’ + +She was side by side with the father of her child about to be born. He +was not and could not be as another man to her, and for the moment there +was the danger lest she should mistake this secret bond for love. The +thought of what had passed between them, and of the child, his and hers, +almost overpowered her. + +‘I cannot,’ he repeated. ‘I _ought_ not. What will become of me?’ + +She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement was not +contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was resonant, but it was +not a note which was consonant with hers, and it did not stir her to +respond. He might love her, he was sincere enough to sacrifice himself +for her, and to remain faithful to her, but the voice was not altogether +that of his own true self. Partly, at least, it was the voice of what he +considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm. She was silent. + +‘Madge,’ he continued, ‘ought you to refuse? You have some love for me. +Is it not greater than the love which thousands feel for one another. +Will you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of someone +besides, who may be very dear to you? _Ought_ you not, I say, to +listen?’ + +The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a voluntary, +rather longer than usual, and the congregation was leaving, some of them +passing near Madge and Frank, and casting idle glances on the young +couple who had evidently come neither to pray nor to admire the +architecture. Madge recognised the well-known St Ann’s fugue, and, +strange to say, even at such a moment it took entire possession of her; +the golden ladder was let down and celestial visitors descended. When +the music ceased she spoke. + +‘It would be a crime.’ + +‘A crime, but I—’ She stopped him. + +‘I know what you are going to say. I know what is the crime to the +world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a worse crime, if a +ceremony had been performed beforehand by a priest, and the worst of +crimes would be that ceremony now. I must go.’ She rose and began to +move towards the door. + +He walked silently by her side till they were in St Paul’s churchyard, +when she took him by the hand, pressed it affectionately and suddenly +turned into one of the courts that lead towards Paternoster Row. He did +not follow her, something repelled him, and when he reached home it +crossed his mind that marriage, after such delay, would be a poor +recompense, as he could not thereby conceal her disgrace. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +IT was clear that these two women could not live in London on +seventy-five pounds a year, most certainly not with the prospect before +them, and Clara cast about for something to do. Marshall had a +brother-in-law, a certain Baruch Cohen, a mathematical instrument maker +in Clerkenwell, and to him Marshall accidentally one day talked about +Clara, and said that she desired an occupation. Cohen himself could not +give Clara any work, but he knew a second-hand bookseller, an old man who +kept a shop in Holborn, who wanted a clerk, and Clara thus found herself +earning another pound a week. With this addition she and her sister +could manage to pay their way and provide what Madge would want. The +hours were long, the duties irksome and wearisome, and, worst of all, the +conditions under which they were performed, were not only as bad as they +could be, but their badness was of a kind to which Clara had never been +accustomed, so that she felt every particle of it in its full force. The +windows of the shop were, of course, full of books, and the walls were +lined with them. In the middle of the shop also was a range of shelves, +and books were stacked on the floor, so that the place looked like a huge +cubical block of them through which passages had been bored. At the back +the shop became contracted in width to about eight feet, and consequently +the central shelves were not continued there, but just where they ended, +and overshadowed by them were a little desk and a stool. All round the +desk more books were piled, and some manœuvring was necessary in order to +sit down. This was Clara’s station. Occasionally, on a brilliant, a +very brilliant day in summer, she could write without gas, but, perhaps, +there were not a dozen such days in the year. By twisting herself +sideways she could just catch a glimpse of a narrow line of sky over some +heavy theology which was not likely to be disturbed, and was therefore +put at the top of the window, and once when somebody bought the _Calvin +Joann_. _Opera Omnia_, 9 _vol. folio_, _Amst._ 1671—it was very clear +that afternoon—she actually descried towards seven o’clock a blessed star +exactly in the middle of the gap the Calvin had left. + +The darkness was very depressing, and poor Clara often shut her eyes as +she bent over her day-book and ledger, and thought of the Fenmarket flats +where the sun could be seen bisected by the horizon at sun-rising and +sun-setting, and where even the southern Antares shone with diamond +glitter close to the ground during summer nights. She tried to reason +with herself during the dreadful smoke fogs; she said to herself that +they were only half-a-mile thick, and she carried herself up in +imagination and beheld the unclouded azure, the filthy smother lying all +beneath her, but her dream did not continue, and reality was too strong +for her. Worse, perhaps, than the eternal gloom was the dirt. She was +naturally fastidious, and as her skin was thin and sensitive, dust was +physically a discomfort. Even at Fenmarket she was continually washing +her hands and face, and, indeed, a wash was more necessary to her after a +walk than food or drink. It was impossible to remain clean in Holborn +for five minutes; everything she touched was foul with grime; her collar +and cuffs were black with it when she went home to her dinner, and it was +not like the honest, blowing road-sand of Fenmarket highways, but a +loathsome composition of everything disgusting which could be produced by +millions of human beings and animals packed together in soot. It was a +real misery to her and made her almost ill. However, she managed to set +up for herself a little lavatory in the basement, and whenever she had a +minute at her command, she descended and enjoyed the luxury of a cool, +dripping sponge and a piece of yellow soap. The smuts began to gather +again the moment she went upstairs, but she strove to arm herself with a +little philosophy against them. ‘What is there in life,’ she moralised, +smiling at her sermonising, ‘which once won is for ever won? It is +always being won and always being lost.’ Her master, fortunately, was +one of the kindest of men, an old gentleman of about sixty-five, who wore +a white necktie, clean every morning. He was really a _gentle_man in the +true sense of that much misused word, and not a mere _trades_man; that is +to say, he loved his business, not altogether for the money it brought +him, but as an art. He was known far and wide, and literary people were +glad to gossip with him. He never pushed his wares, and he hated to sell +them to anybody who did not know their value. He amused Clara one +afternoon when a carriage stopped at the door, and a lady inquired if he +had a Manning and Bray’s _History of Surrey_. Yes, he had a copy, and he +pointed to the three handsome, tall folios. + +‘What is the price?’ + +‘Twelve pounds ten.’ + +‘I think I will have them.’ + +‘Madam, you will pardon me, but, if I were you, I would not. I think +something much cheaper will suit you better. If you will allow me, I +will look out for you and will report in a few days.’ + +‘Oh! very well,’ and she departed. + +‘The wife of a brassfounder,’ he said to Clara; ‘made a lot of money, and +now he has bought a house at Dulwich and is setting up a library. +Somebody has told him that he ought to have a county history, and that +Manning and Bray is the book. Manning and Bray! What he wants is a +Dulwich and Denmark Hill Directory. No, no,’ and he took down one of the +big volumes, blew the dust off the top edges and looked at the old +book-plate inside, ‘you won’t go there if I can help it.’ He took a +fancy to Clara when he found she loved literature, although what she read +was out of his department altogether, and his perfectly human behaviour +to her prevented that sense of exile and loneliness which is so horrible +to many a poor creature who comes up to London to begin therein the +struggle for existence. She read and meditated a good deal in the shop, +but not to much profit, for she was continually interrupted, and the +thought of her sister intruded itself perpetually. + +Madge seldom or never spoke of her separation from Frank, but one night, +when she was somewhat less reserved than usual, Clara ventured to ask her +if she had heard from him since they parted. + +‘I met him once.’ + +‘Madge, do you mean that he found out where we are living, and that he +came to see you?’ + +‘No, it was just round the corner as I was going towards Holborn.’ + +‘Nothing could have brought him here but yourself,’ said Clara, slowly. + +‘Clara, you doubt?’ + +‘No, no! I doubt you? Never!’ + +‘But you hesitate; you reflect. Speak out.’ + +‘God forbid I should utter a word which would induce you to disbelieve +what you know to be right. It is much more important to believe +earnestly that something is morally right than that it should be really +right, and he who attempts to displace a belief runs a certain risk, +because he is not sure that what he substitutes can be held with equal +force. Besides, each person’s belief, or proposed course of action, is a +part of himself, and if he be diverted from it and takes up with that +which is not himself, the unity of his nature is impaired, and he loses +himself.’ + +‘Which is as much as to say that the prophet is to break no idols.’ + +‘You know I do not mean that, and you know, too, how incapable I am of +defending myself in argument. I never can stand up for anything I say. +I can now and then say something, but, when I have said it, I run away.’ + +‘My dearest Clara,’ Madge put her arm over her sister’s shoulder as they +sat side by side, ‘do not run away now; tell me just what you think of +me.’ + +Clara was silent for a minute. + +‘I have sometimes wondered whether you have not demanded a little too +much of yourself and Frank. It is always a question of how much. There +is no human truth which is altogether true, no love which is altogether +perfect. You may possibly have neglected virtue or devotion such as you +could not find elsewhere, overlooking it because some failing, or the +lack of sympathy on some unimportant point, may at the moment have been +prominent. Frank loved you, Madge.’ + +Madge did not reply; she withdrew her arm from her sister’s neck, threw +herself back in her chair and closed her eyes. She saw again the +Fenmarket roads, that summer evening, and she felt once more Frank’s +burning caresses. She thought of him as he left St Paul’s, perhaps +broken-hearted. Stronger than every other motive to return to him, and +stronger than ever, was the movement towards him of that which belonged +to him. + +At last she cried out, literally cried, with a vehemence which startled +and terrified Clara,— + +‘Clara, Clara, you know not what you do! For God’s sake forbear!’ She +was again silent, and then she turned round hurriedly, hid her face, and +sobbed piteously. It lasted, however, but for a minute; she rose, wiped +her eyes, went to the window, came back again, and said,— + +‘It is beginning to snow.’ + +The iron pillar bolted to the solid rock had quivered and resounded under +the blow, but its vibrations were nothing more than those of the rigid +metal; the base was unshaken and, except for an instant, the column had +not been deflected a hair’s-breadth. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +MR COHEN, who had obtained the situation indirectly for Clara, thought +nothing more about it until, one day, he went to the shop, and he then +recollected his recommendation, which had been given solely in faith, for +he had never seen the young woman, and had trusted entirely to Marshall. +He found her at her dark desk, and as he approached her, she hastily put +a mark in a book and closed it. + +‘Have you sold a little volume called _After Office Hours_ by a man named +Robinson?’ + +‘I did not know we had it. I have never seen it.’ + +‘I do not wonder, but I saw it here about six months ago; it was up +there,’ pointing to a top shelf. Clara was about to mount the ladder, +but he stopped her, and found what he wanted. Some of the leaves were +torn. + +‘We can repair those for you; in about a couple of days it shall be +ready.’ + +He lingered a little, and at that moment another customer entered. Clara +went forward to speak to him, and Cohen was able to see that it was the +_Heroes and Hero Worship_ she had been studying, a course of lectures +which had been given by a Mr Carlyle, of whom Cohen knew something. As +the customer showed no signs of departing, Cohen left, saying he would +call again. + +Before sending Robinson’s _After Office Hours_ to the binder, Clara +looked at it. It was made up of short essays, about twenty altogether, +bound in dark-green cloth, lettered at the side, and published in 1841. +They were upon the oddest subjects: such as, _Ought Children to learn +Rules before Reasons_? _The Higher Mathematics and Materialism_. _Ought +We to tell Those Whom We love what We think about Them_? _Deductive +Reasoning in Politics_. _What Troubles ought We to Make Known and What +ought We to Keep Secret_: _Courage as a Science and an Art_. + +Clara did not read any one essay through, she had no time, but she was +somewhat struck with a few sentences which caught her eye; for example—‘A +mere dream, a vague hope, ought in some cases to be more potent than a +certainty in regulating our action. The faintest vision of God should be +more determinative than the grossest earthly assurance.’ + +‘I knew a case in which a man had to encounter three successive trials of +all the courage and inventive faculty in him. Failure in one would have +been ruin. The odds against him in each trial were desperate, and +against ultimate victory were overwhelming. Nevertheless, he made the +attempt, and was triumphant, by the narrowest margin, in every struggle. +That which is of most value to us is often obtained in defiance of the +laws of probability.’ + +‘What is precious in Quakerism is not so much the doctrine of the Divine +voice as that of the preliminary stillness, the closure against other +voices and the reduction of the mind to a condition in which it can +_listen_, in which it can discern the merest whisper, inaudible when the +world, or interest, or passion, are permitted to speak.’ + +‘The acutest syllogiser can never develop the actual consequences of any +system of policy, or, indeed, of any change in human relationship, man +being so infinitely complex, and the interaction of human forces so +incalculable.’ + +‘Many of our speculative difficulties arise from the unauthorised +conception of an _omnipotent_ God, a conception entirely of our own +creation, and one which, if we look at it closely, has no meaning. It is +because God _could_ have done otherwise, and did not, that we are +confounded. It may be distressing to think that God cannot do any +better, but it is not so distressing as to believe that He might have +done better had He so willed.’ + +Although these passages were disconnected, each of them seemed to Clara +to be written in a measure for herself, and her curiosity was excited +about the author. Perhaps the man who called would say something about +him. + +Baruch Cohen was now a little over forty. He was half a Jew, for his +father was a Jew and his mother a Gentile. The father had broken with +Judaism, but had not been converted to any Christian church or sect. He +was a diamond-cutter, originally from Holland, came over to England and +married the daughter of a mathematical instrument maker, at whose house +he lodged in Clerkenwell. The son was apprenticed to his maternal +grandfather’s trade, became very skilful at it, worked at it himself, +employed a man and a boy, and supplied London shops, which sold his +instruments at about three times the price he obtained for them. Baruch, +when he was very young, married Marshall’s elder sister, but she died at +the birth of her first child and he had been a widower now for nineteen +years. He had often thought of taking another wife, and had seen, during +these nineteen years, two or three women with whom he had imagined +himself to be really in love, and to whom he had been on the verge of +making proposals, but in each case he had hung back, and when he found +that a second and a third had awakened the same ardour for a time as the +first, he distrusted its genuineness. He was now, too, at a time of life +when a man has to make the unpleasant discovery that he is beginning to +lose the right to expect what he still eagerly desires, and that he must +beware of being ridiculous. It is indeed a very unpleasant discovery. +If he has done anything well which was worth doing, or has made himself a +name, he may be treated by women with respect or adulation, but any +passable boy of twenty is really more interesting to them, and, +unhappily, there is perhaps so much of the man left in him that he would +rather see the eyes of a girl melt when she looked at him than be adored +by all the drawing-rooms in London as the author of the greatest poem +since _Paradise Lost_, or as the conqueror of half a continent. Baruch’s +life during the last nineteen years had been such that he was still +young, and he desired more than ever, because not so blindly as he +desired it when he was a youth, the tender, intimate sympathy of a +woman’s love. It was singular that, during all those nineteen years, he +should not once have been overcome. It seemed to him as if he had been +held back, not by himself, but by some external power, which refused to +give any reasons for so doing. There was now less chance of yielding +than ever; he was reserved and self-respectful, and his manner towards +women distinctly announced to them that he knew what he was and that he +had no claims whatever upon them. He was something of a philosopher, +too; he accepted, therefore, as well as he could, without complaint, the +inevitable order of nature, and he tried to acquire, although often he +failed, that blessed art of taking up lightly and even with a smile +whatever he was compelled to handle. ‘It is possible,’ he said once, ‘to +consider death too seriously.’ He was naturally more than half a Jew; +his features were Jewish, his thinking was Jewish, and he believed after +a fashion in the Jewish sacred books, or, at anyrate, read them +continuously, although he had added to his armoury defensive weapons of +another type. In nothing was he more Jewish than in a tendency to dwell +upon the One, or what he called God, clinging still to the expression of +his forefathers although departing so widely from them. In his ethics +and system of life, as well as in his religion, there was the same +intolerance of a multiplicity which was not reducible to unity. He +seldom explained his theory, but everybody who knew him recognised the +difference which it wrought between him and other men. There was a +certain concord in everything he said and did, as if it were directed by +some enthroned but secret principle. + +He had encountered no particular trouble since his wife’s death, but his +life had been unhappy. He had no friends, much as he longed for +friendship, and he could not give any reasons for his failure. He saw +other persons more successful, but he remained solitary. Their needs +were not so great as his, for it is not those who have the least but +those who have the most to give who most want sympathy. He had often +made advances; people had called on him and had appeared interested in +him, but they had dropped away. The cause was chiefly to be found in his +nationality. The ordinary Englishman disliked him simply as a Jew, and +the better sort were repelled by a lack of geniality and by his inability +to manifest a healthy interest in personal details. Partly also the +cause was that those who care to speak about what is nearest to them are +very rare, and most persons find conversation easy in proportion to the +remoteness of its topics from them. Whatever the reasons may have been, +Baruch now, no matter what the pressure from within might be, generally +kept himself to himself. It was a mistake and he ought not to have +retreated so far upon repulse. A word will sometimes, when least +expected, unlock a heart, a soul is gained for ever, and at once there is +much more than a recompense for the indifference of years. + +After the death of his wife, Baruch’s affection spent itself upon his son +Benjamin, whom he had apprenticed to a firm of optical instrument makers +in York. The boy was not very much like his father. He was indifferent +to that religion by which his father lived, but he inherited an aptitude +for mathematics, which was very necessary in his trade. Benjamin also +possessed his father’s rectitude, trusted him, and looked to him for +advice to such a degree that even Baruch, at last, thought it would be +better to send him away from home in order that he might become a little +more self-reliant and independent. It was the sorest of trials to part +with him, and, for some time after he left, Baruch’s loneliness was +intolerable. It was, however, relieved by a visit to York perhaps once +in four or five months, for whenever business could be alleged as an +excuse for going north, he managed, as he said, ‘to take York on his +way.’ + +The day after he met Clara he started for Birmingham, and although York +was certainly not ‘on his way,’ he pushed forward to the city and reached +it on a Saturday evening. He was to spend Sunday there, and on Sunday +morning he proposed that they should hear the cathedral service, and go +for a walk in the afternoon. To this suggestion Benjamin partially +assented. He wished to go to the cathedral in the morning, but thought +his father had better rest after dinner. Baruch somewhat resented the +insinuation of possible fatigue consequent on advancing years. + +‘What do you mean?’ he said; ‘you know well enough I enjoy a walk in the +afternoon; besides, I shall not see much of you, and do not want to lose +what little time I have.’ + +About three, therefore, they started, and presently a girl met them, who +was introduced simply as ‘Miss Masters.’ + +‘We are going to your side of the water,’ said the son; ‘you may as well +cross with us.’ + +They came to a point where a boat was moored, and a man was in it. There +was no regular ferry, but on Sundays he earned a trifle by taking people +to the opposite meadow, and thus enabling them to vary their return +journey to the city. When they were about two-thirds of the way over, +Benjamin observed that if they stood up they could see the Minster. They +all three rose, and without an instant’s warning—they could not tell +afterwards how it happened—the boat half capsized, and they were in eight +or nine feet of water. Baruch could not swim and went down at once, but +on coming up close to the gunwale he caught at it and held fast. Looking +round, he saw that Benjamin, who could swim well, had made for Miss +Masters, and, having caught her by the back of the neck, was taking her +ashore. The boatman, who could also swim, called out to Baruch to hold +on, gave the boat three or four vigorous strokes from the stern, and +Baruch felt the ground under his feet. The boatman’s little cottage was +not far off, and, when the party reached it, Benjamin earnestly desired +Miss Masters to take off her wet clothes and occupy the bed which was +offered her. He himself would run home—it was not half-a-mile—and, after +having changed, would go to her house and send her sister with what was +wanted. He was just off when it suddenly struck him that his father +might need some attention. + +‘Oh, father—’ he began, but the boatman’s wife interposed. + +‘He can’t be left like that, and he can’t go home; he’ll catch his death +o’ cold, and there isn’t but one more bed in the house, and that isn’t +quite fit to put a gentleman in. Howsomever, he must turn in there, and +my husband, he can go into the back-kitchen and rub himself down. You +won’t do yourself no good, Mr Cohen,’ addressing the son, whom she knew, +‘by going back; you’d better stay here and get into bed with your +father.’ + +In a few minutes the boatman would have gone on the errand, but Benjamin +could not lose the opportunity of sacrificing himself for Miss Masters. +He rushed off, and in three-quarters of an hour had returned with the +sister. Having learned, after anxious inquiry, that Miss Masters, so far +as could be discovered, had not caught a chill, he went to his father. + +‘Well, father, I hope you are none the worse for the ducking,’ he said +gaily. ‘The next time you come to York you’d better bring another suit +of clothes with you.’ + +Baruch turned round uneasily and did not answer immediately. He had had +a narrow escape from drowning. + +‘Nothing of much consequence. Is your friend all right?’ + +‘Oh, yes; I was anxious about her, for she is not very strong, but I do +not think she will come to much harm. I made them light a fire in her +room.’ + +‘Are they drying my clothes?’ + +‘I’ll go and see.’ + +He went away and encountered the elder Miss Masters, who told him that +her sister, feeling no ill effects from the plunge, had determined to go +home at once, and in fact was nearly ready. Benjamin waited, and +presently she came downstairs, smiling. + +‘Nothing the matter. I owe it to you, however, that I am not now in +another world.’ + +Benjamin was in an ecstasy, and considered himself bound to accompany her +to her door. + +Meanwhile, Baruch lay upstairs alone in no very happy temper. He heard +the conversation below, and knew that his son had gone. In all genuine +love there is something of ferocious selfishness. The perfectly divine +nature knows how to keep it in check, and is even capable—supposing it to +be a woman’s nature—of contentment if the loved one is happy, no matter +with what or with whom; but the nature only a little less than divine +cannot, without pain, endure the thought that it no longer owns privately +and exclusively that which it loves, even when it loves a child, and +Baruch was particularly excusable, considering his solitude. +Nevertheless, he had learned a little wisdom, and, what was of much +greater importance, had learned how to use it when he needed it. It had +been forced upon him; it was an adjustment to circumstances, the wisest +wisdom. It was not something without any particular connection with him; +it was rather the external protection built up from within to shield him +where he was vulnerable; it was the answer to questions which had been +put to _him_, and not to those which had been put to other people. So it +came to pass that, when he said bitterly to himself that, if he were at +that moment lying dead at the bottom of the river, Benjamin would have +found consolation very near at hand, he was able to reflect upon the +folly of self-laceration, and to rebuke himself for a complaint against +what was simply the order of Nature, and not a personal failure. + +His self-conquest, however, was not very permanent. When he left York +the next morning, he fancied his son was not particularly grieved, and he +was passive under the thought that an epoch in his life had come, that +the milestones now began to show the distance to the place to which he +travelled, and, still worse, that the boy who had been so close to him, +and upon whom he had so much depended, had gone from him. + +There is no remedy for our troubles which is uniformly and progressively +efficacious. All that we have a right to expect from our religion is +that gradually, very gradually, it will assist us to a real victory. +After each apparent defeat, if we are bravely in earnest, we gain +something on our former position. Baruch was two days on his journey +back to town, and as he came nearer home, he recovered himself a little. +Suddenly he remembered the bookshop and the book for which he had to +call, and that he had intended to ask Marshall something about the +bookseller’s new assistant. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +MADGE was a puzzle to Mrs Caffyn. Mrs Caffyn loved her, and when she was +ill had behaved like a mother to her. The newly-born child, a healthy +girl, was treated by Mrs Caffyn as if it were her own granddaughter, and +many little luxuries were bought which never appeared in Mrs Marshall’s +weekly bill. Naturally, Mrs Caffyn’s affection moved a response from +Madge, and Mrs Caffyn by degrees heard the greater part of her history; +but why she had separated herself from her lover without any apparent +reason remained a mystery, and all the greater was the mystery because +Mrs Caffyn believed that there were no other facts to be known than those +she knew. She longed to bring about a reconciliation. It was dreadful +to her that Madge should be condemned to poverty, and that her infant +should be fatherless, although there was a gentleman waiting to take them +both and make them happy. + +‘The hair won’t be dark like yours, my love,’ she said one afternoon, +soon after Madge had come downstairs and was lying on the sofa. ‘The +hair do darken a lot, but hers will never be black. It’s my opinion as +it’ll be fair.’ + +Madge did not speak, and Mrs Caffyn, who was sitting at the head of the +couch, put her work and her spectacles on the table. It was growing +dusk; she took Madge’s hand, which hung down by her side, and gently +lifted it up. Such a delicate hand, Mrs Caffyn thought. She was proud +that she had for a friend the owner of such a hand, who behaved to her as +an equal. It was delightful to be kissed—no mere formal salutations—by a +lady fit to go into the finest drawing-room in London, but it was a +greater delight that Madge’s talk suited her better than any she had +heard at Great Oakhurst. It was natural she should rejoice when she +discovered, unconsciously that she had a soul, to which the speech of the +stars, though somewhat strange, was not an utterly foreign tongue. + +She retained her hold on Madge’s hand. + +‘May be,’ she continued, ‘it’ll be like its father’s. In our family all +the gals take after the father, and all the boys after the mother. I +suppose as _he_ has lightish hair?’ + +Still Madge said nothing. + +‘It isn’t easy to believe as the father of that blessed dear could have +been a bad lot. I’m sure he isn’t, and yet there’s that Polesden gal at +the farm, she as went wrong with Jim, a great ugly brute, and she herself +warnt up to much, well, as I say, her child was the delicatest little +angel as I ever saw. It’s my belief as God-a-mighty mixes Hisself up in +it more nor we think. But there _was_ nothing amiss with him, was there, +my sweet?’ + +Mrs Caffyn inclined her head towards Madge. + +‘Oh, no! Nothing, nothing.’ + +‘Don’t you think, my dear, if there’s nothing atwixt you, as it was a +flyin’ in the face of Providence to turn him off? You were reglarly +engaged to him, and I have heard you say he was very fond of you. I +suppose there were some high words about something, and a kind of a +quarrel like, and so you parted, but that’s nothing. It might all be +made up now, and it ought to be made up. What was it about?’ + +‘There was no quarrel.’ + +‘Well, of course, if you don’t like to say anything more to me, I won’t +ask you. I don’t want to hear any secrets as I shouldn’t hear. I speak +only because I can’t abear to see you here when I believe as everything +might be put right, and you might have a house of your own, and a good +husband, and be happy for the rest of your days. It isn’t too late for +that now. I know what I know, and as how he’d marry you at once.’ + +‘Oh, my dear Mrs Caffyn, I have no secret from you, who have been so good +to me: I can only say I could not love him—not as I ought.’ + +‘If you can’t love a man, that’s to say if you can’t _abear_ him, it’s +wrong to have him, but if there’s a child that does make a difference, +for one has to think of the child and of being respectable. There’s +something in being respectable; although, for that matter, I’ve see’d +respectable people at Great Oakhurst as were ten times worse than those +as aren’t. Still, a-speaking for myself, I’d put up with a goodish bit +to marry the man whose child wor mine.’ + +‘For myself I could, but it wouldn’t be just to him.’ + +‘I don’t see what you mean.’ + +‘I mean that I could sacrifice myself if I believed it to be my duty, but +I should wrong him cruelly if I were to accept him and did not love him +with all my heart.’ + +‘My dear, you take my word for it, he isn’t so particklar as you are. A +man isn’t so particklar as a woman. He goes about his work, and has all +sorts of things in his head, and if a woman makes him comfortable when he +comes home, he’s all right. I won’t say as one woman is much the same as +another to a man—leastways to all men—but still they are _not_ +particklar. Maybe, though, it isn’t quite the same with gentlefolk like +yourself,—but there’s that blessed baby a-cryin’.’ + +Mrs Caffyn hastened upstairs, leaving Madge to her reflections. Once +more the old dialectic reappeared. ‘After all,’ she thought, ‘it is, as +Clara said, a question of degree. There are not a thousand husbands and +wives in this great city whose relationship comes near perfection. If I +felt aversion my course would be clear, but there is no aversion; on the +contrary, our affection for one another is sufficient for a decent +household and decent existence undisturbed by catastrophes. No brighter +sunlight is obtained by others far better than myself. Ought I to expect +a refinement of relationship to which I have no right? Our claims are +always beyond our deserts, and we are disappointed if our poor, mean, +defective natures do not obtain the homage which belongs to those of +ethereal texture. It will be a life with no enthusiasms nor romance, +perhaps, but it will be tolerable, and what may be called happy, and my +child will be protected and educated. My child! what is there which I +ought to put in the balance against her? If our sympathy is not +complete, I have my own little oratory: I can keep the candles alight, +close the door, and worship there alone.’ + +So she mused, and her foes again ranged themselves over against her. +There was nothing to support her but something veiled, which would not +altogether disclose or explain itself. Nevertheless, in a few minutes, +her enemies had vanished, like a mist before a sudden wind, and she was +once more victorious. Precious and rare are those divine souls, to whom +that which is aërial is substantial, the only true substance; those for +whom a pale vision possesses an authority they are forced unconditionally +to obey. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +MRS CAFFYN was unhappy, and made up her mind that she would talk to Frank +herself. She had learned enough about him from the two sisters, +especially from Clara, to make her believe that, with a very little +management, she could bring him back to Madge. The difficulty was to see +him without his father’s knowledge. At last she determined to write to +him, and she made her son-in-law address the envelope and mark it +private. This is what she said:— + + ‘DEAR SIR,—Although unbeknown to you, I take the liberty of telling + you as M. H. is alivin’ here with me, and somebody else as I think + you ought to see, but perhaps I’d better have a word or two with you + myself, if not quite ill-convenient to you, and maybe you’ll be kind + enough to say how that’s to be done to your obedient, humble servant, + + ‘MRS CAFFYN.’ + +She thought this very diplomatic, inasmuch as nobody but Frank could +possibly suspect what the letter meant. It went to Stoke Newington, but, +alas! he was in Germany, and poor Mrs Caffyn had to wait a week before +she received a reply. Frank of course understood it. Although he had +thought about Madge continually, he had become calmer. He saw, it is +true, that there was no stability in his position, and that he could not +possibly remain where he was. Had Madge been the commonest of the +common, and his relationship to her the commonest of the common, he could +not permit her to cast herself loose from him for ever and take upon +herself the whole burden of his misdeed. But he did not know what to do, +and, as successive considerations and reconsiderations ended in nothing, +and the distractions of a foreign country were so numerous, Madge had for +a time been put aside, like a huge bill which we cannot pay, and which +staggers us. We therefore docket it, and hide it in the desk, and we +imagine we have done something. Once again, however, the flame leapt up +out of the ashes, vivid as ever. Once again the thought that he had been +so close to Madge, and that she had yielded to him, touched him with +peculiar tenderness, and it seemed impossible to part himself from her. +To a man with any of the nobler qualities of man it is not only a sense +of honour which binds him to a woman who has given him all she has to +give. Separation seems unnatural, monstrous, a divorce from himself; it +is not she alone, but it is himself whom he abandons. Frank’s duty, too, +pointed imperiously to the path he ought to take, duty to the child as +well as to the mother. He determined to go home, secretly; Mrs Caffyn +would not have written if she had not seen good reason for believing that +Madge still belonged to him. He made up his mind to start the next day, +but when the next day came, instructions to go immediately to Hamburg +arrived from his father. There were rumours of the insolvency of a house +with which Mr Palmer dealt; inquiries were necessary which could better +be made personally, and if these rumours were correct, as Mr Palmer +believed them to be, his agency must be transferred to some other firm. +There was now no possibility of a journey to England. For a moment he +debated whether, when he was at Hamburg, he could not slip over to +London, but it would be dangerous. Further orders might come from his +father, and the failure to acknowledge them would lead to evasion, and +perhaps to discovery. He must, therefore, content himself with a written +explanation to Mrs Caffyn why he could not meet her, and there should be +one more effort to make atonement to Madge. This was what went to Mrs +Caffyn, and to her lodger:— + + ‘DEAR MADAM,—Your note has reached me here. I am very sorry that my + engagements are so pressing that I cannot leave Germany at present. + I have written to Miss Hopgood. There is one subject which I cannot + mention to her—I cannot speak to her about money. Will you please + give me full information? I enclose £20, and I must trust to your + discretion. I thank you heartily for all your kindness.—Truly yours, + + ‘FRANK PALMER.’ + + ‘MY DEAREST MADGE,—I cannot help saying one more word to you, + although, when I last saw you, you told me that it was useless for me + to hope. I know, however, that there is now another bond between us, + the child is mine as well as yours, and if I am not all that you + deserve, ought you to prevent me from doing my duty to it as well as + to you? It is true that if we were to marry I could never right you, + and perhaps my father would have nothing to do with us, but in time + he might relent, and I will come over at once, or, at least, the + moment I have settled some business here, and you shall be my wife. + Do, my dearest Madge, consent.’ + +When he came to this point his pen stopped. What he had written was very +smooth, but very tame and cold. However, nothing better presented +itself; he changed his position, sat back in his chair, and searched +himself, but could find nothing. It was not always so. Some months ago +there would have been no difficulty, and he would not have known when to +come to an end. The same thing would have been said a dozen times, +perhaps, but it would not have seemed the same to him, and each +succeeding repetition would have been felt with the force of novelty. He +took a scrap of paper and tried to draft two or three sentences, altered +them several times and made them worse. He then re-read the letter; it +was too short; but after all it contained what was necessary, and it must +go as it stood. She knew how he felt towards her. So he signed it after +giving his address at Hamburg, and it was posted. + +Three or four days afterwards Mrs Marshall, in accordance with her usual +custom, went to see Madge before she was up. The child lay peacefully by +its mother’s side and Frank’s letter was upon the counterpane. The +resolution that no letter from him should be opened had been broken. The +two women had become great friends and, within the last few weeks, Madge +had compelled Mrs Marshall to call her by her Christian name. + +‘You’ve had a letter from Mr Palmer; I was sure it was his handwriting +when it came late last night.’ + +‘You can read it; there is nothing private in it.’ + +She turned round to the child and Mrs Marshall sat down and read. When +she had finished she laid the letter on the bed again and was silent. + +‘Well?’ said Madge. ‘Would you say “No?”’ + +‘Yes, I would.’ + +‘For your own sake, as well as for his?’ + +Mrs Marshall took up the letter and read half of it again. + +‘Yes, you had better say “No.” You will find it dull, especially if you +have to live in London.’ + +‘Did you find London dull when you came to live in it?’ + +‘Rather; Marshall is away all day long.’ + +‘But scarcely any woman in London expects to marry a man who is not away +all day.’ + +‘They ought then to have heaps of work, or they ought to have a lot of +children to look after; but, perhaps, being born and bred in the country, +I do not know what people in London are. Recollect you were country born +and bred yourself, or, at anyrate, you have lived in the country for the +most of your life.’ + +‘Dull! we must all expect to be dull.’ + +‘There’s nothing worse. I’ve had rheumatic fever, and I say, give me the +fever rather than what comes over me at times here. If Marshall had not +been so good to me, I do not know what I should have done with myself.’ + +Madge turned round and looked Mrs Marshall straight in the face, but she +did not flinch. + +‘Marshall is very good to me, but I was glad when mother and you and your +sister came to keep me company when he is not at home. It tired me to +have my meals alone: it is bad for the digestion; at least, so he says, +and he believes that it was indigestion that was the matter with me. I +should be sorry for myself if you were to go away; not that I want to put +that forward. Maybe I should never see much more of you: he is rich: you +might come here sometimes, but he would not like to have Marshall and +mother and me at his house.’ + +Not a word was spoken for at least a minute. + +Suddenly Mrs Marshall took Madge’s hand in her own hands, leaned over +her, and in that kind of whisper with which we wake a sleeper who is to +be aroused to escape from sudden peril, she said in her ear,— + +‘Madge, Madge: for God’s sake leave him!’ + +‘I have left him.’ + +‘Are you sure?’ + +‘Quite.’ + +‘For ever?’ + +‘For ever!’ + +Mrs Marshall let go Madge’s hand, turned her eyes towards her intently +for a moment, and again bent over her as if she were about to embrace +her. A knock, however, came at the door, and Mrs Caffyn entered with the +cup of coffee which she always insisted on bringing before Madge rose. +After she and her daughter had left, Madge read the letter once more. +There was nothing new in it, but formally it was something, like the +tolling of the bell when we know that our friend is dead. There was a +little sobbing, and then she kissed her child with such eagerness that it +began to cry. + +‘You’ll answer that letter, I suppose?’ said Mrs Caffyn, when they were +alone. + +‘No.’ + +‘I’m rather glad. It would worrit you, and there’s nothing worse for a +baby than worritin’ when it’s mother’s a-feedin it.’ + +Mr Caffyn wrote as follows:— + + ‘DEAR SIR,—I was sorry as you couldn’t come; but I believe now as it + was better as you didn’t. I am no scollard, and so no more from your + obedient, humble servant, + + ‘MRS CAFFYN. + + ‘_P.S._—I return the money, having no use for the same. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +BARUCH did not obtain any very definite information from Marshall about +Clara. He was told that she had a sister; that they were both of them +gentlewomen; that their mother and father were dead; that they were great +readers, and that they did not go to church nor chapel, but that they +both went sometimes to hear a certain Mr A. J. Scott lecture. He was +once assistant minister to Irving, but was now heretical, and had a +congregation of his own creating at Woolwich. + +Baruch called at the shop and found Clara once more alone. The book was +packed up and had being lying ready for him for two or three days. He +wanted to speak, but hardly knew how to begin. He looked idly round the +shelves, taking down one volume after another, and at last he said,— + +‘I suppose nobody but myself has ever asked for a copy of Robinson?’ + +‘Not since I have been here.’ + +‘I do not wonder at it; he printed only two hundred and fifty; he gave +away five-and-twenty, and I am sure nearly two hundred were sold as +wastepaper.’ + +‘He is a friend of yours?’ + +‘He was a friend; he is dead; he was an usher in a private school, +although you might have supposed, from the title selected, that he was a +clerk. I told him it was useless to publish, and his publishers told him +the same thing.’ + +‘I should have thought that some notice would have been taken of him; he +is so evidently worth it.’ + +‘Yes, but although he was original and reflective, he had no particular +talent. His excellence lay in criticism and observation, often profound, +on what came to him every day, and he was valueless in the literary +market. A talent of some kind is necessary to genius if it is to be +heard. So he died utterly unrecognised, save by one or two personal +friends who loved him dearly. He was peculiar in the depth and intimacy +of his friendships. Few men understand the meaning of the word +friendship. They consort with certain companions and perhaps very +earnestly admire them, because they possess intellectual gifts, but of +friendship, such as we two, Morris and I (for that was his real name) +understood it, they know nothing.’ + +‘Do you believe, that the good does not necessarily survive?’ + +‘Yes and no; I believe that power every moment, so far as our eyes can +follow it, is utterly lost. I have had one or two friends whom the world +has never known and never will know, who have more in them than is to be +found in many an English classic. I could take you to a little +dissenting chapel not very far from Holborn where you would hear a young +Welshman, with no education beyond that provided by a Welsh +denominational college, who is a perfect orator and whose depth of +insight is hardly to be matched, save by Thomas À Kempis, whom he much +resembles. When he dies he will be forgotten in a dozen years. Besides, +it is surely plain enough to everybody that there are thousands of men +and women within a mile of us, apathetic and obscure, who, if, an object +worthy of them had been presented to them, would have shown themselves +capable of enthusiasm and heroism. Huge volumes of human energy are +apparently annihilated.’ + +‘It is very shocking, worse to me than the thought of the earthquake or +the pestilence.’ + +‘I said “yes and no” and there is another side. The universe is so +wonderful, so intricate, that it is impossible to trace the +transformation of its forces, and when they seem to disappear the +disappearance may be an illusion. Moreover, “waste” is a word which is +applicable only to finite resources. If the resources are infinite it +has no meaning.’ + +Two customers came in and Baruch was obliged to leave. When he came to +reflect, he was surprised to find not only how much he had said, but what +he had said. He was usually reserved, and with strangers he adhered to +the weather or to passing events. He had spoken, however, to this young +woman as if they had been acquainted for years. Clara, too, was +surprised. She always cut short attempts at conversation in the shop. +Frequently she answered questions and receipted and returned bills +without looking in the faces of the people who spoke to her or offered +her the money. But to this foreigner, or Jew, she had disclosed +something she felt. She was rather abashed, but presently her employer, +Mr Barnes, returned and somewhat relieved her. + +‘The gentleman who bought _After Office Hours_ came for it while you were +out?’ + +‘Oh! what, Cohen? Good fellow Cohen is; he it was who recommended you to +me. He is brother-in-law to your landlord.’ Clara was comforted; he was +not a mere ‘casual,’ as Mr Barnes called his chance customers. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +ABOUT a fortnight afterwards, on a Sunday afternoon, Cohen went to the +Marshalls’. He had called there once or twice since his mother-in-law +came to London, but had seen nothing of the lodgers. It was just about +tea-time, but unfortunately Marshall and his wife had gone out. Mrs +Caffyn insisted that Cohen should stay, but Madge could not be persuaded +to come downstairs, and Baruch, Mrs Caffyn and Clara had tea by +themselves. Baruch asked Mrs Caffyn if she could endure London after +living for so long in the country. + +‘Ah! my dear boy, I have to like it.’ + +‘No, you haven’t; what you mean is that, whether you like it, or whether +you do not, you have to put up with it.’ + +‘No, I don’t mean that. Miss Hopgood, Cohen and me, we are the best of +friends, but whenever he comes here, he allus begins to argue with me. +Howsomever, arguing isn’t everything, is it, my dear? There’s some +things, after all, as I can do and he can’t, but he’s just wrong here in +his arguing that wasn’t what I meant. I meant what I said, as I had to +like it.’ + +‘How can you like it if you don’t?’ + +‘How can I? That shows you’re a man and not a woman. Jess like you men. +_You’d_ do what you didn’t like, I know, for you’re a good sort—and +everybody would know you didn’t like it—but what would be the use of me +a-livin’ in a house if I didn’t like it?—with my daughter and these dear, +young women? If it comes to livin’, you’d ten thousand times better say +at once as you hate bein’ where you are than go about all day long, as if +you was a blessed saint and put upon.’ + +Mrs Caffyn twitched at her gown and pulled it down over her knees and +brushed the crumbs off with energy. She continued, ‘I can’t abide people +who everlastin’ make believe they are put upon. Suppose I were allus +a-hankering every foggy day after Great Oakhurst, and yet a-tellin’ my +daughter as I knew my place was here; if I was she, I should wish my +mother at Jericho.’ + +‘Then you really prefer London to Great Oakhurst?’ said Clara. + +‘Why, my dear, of course I do. Don’t you think it’s pleasanter being +here with you and your sister and that precious little creature, and my +daughter, than down in that dead-alive place? Not that I don’t miss my +walk sometimes into Darkin; you remember that way as I took you once, +Baruch, across the hill, and we went over Ranmore Common and I showed you +Camilla Lacy, and you said as you knew a woman who wrote books who once +lived there? You remember them beech-woods? Ah, it was one October! +Weren’t they a colour—weren’t they lovely?’ + +Baruch remembered them well enough. Who that had ever seen them could +forget them? + +‘And it was I as took you! You wouldn’t think it, my dear, though he’s +always a-arguin’, I do believe he’d love to go that walk again, even with +an old woman, and see them heavenly beeches. But, Lord, how I do talk, +and you’ve neither of you got any tea.’ + +‘Have you lived long in London, Miss Hopgood?’ inquired Baruch. + +‘Not very long.’ + +‘Do you feel the change?’ + +‘I cannot say I do not.’ + +‘I suppose, however, you have brought yourself to believe in Mrs Caffyn’s +philosophy?’ + +‘I cannot say that, but I may say that I am scarcely strong enough for +mere endurance, and I therefore always endeavour to find something +agreeable in circumstances from which there is no escape.’ + +The recognition of the One in the Many had as great a charm for Baruch as +it had for Socrates, and Clara spoke with the ease of a person whose +habit it was to deal with principles and generalisations. + +‘Yes, and mere toleration, to say nothing of opposition, at least so far +as persons are concerned, is seldom necessary. It is generally thought +that what is called dramatic power is a poetic gift, but it is really an +indispensable virtue to all of us if we are to be happy.’ + +Mrs Caffyn did not take much interest in abstract statements. ‘You +remember,’ she said, turning to Baruch, ‘that man Chorley as has the big +farm on the left-hand side just afore you come to the common? He wasn’t +a Surrey man: he came out of the shires.’ + +‘Very well.’ + +‘He’s married that Skelton girl; married her the week afore I left. +There isn’t no love lost there, but the girl’s father said he’d murder +him if he didn’t, and so it come off. How she ever brought herself to it +gets over me. She has that big farm-house, and he’s made a fine +drawing-room out of the livin’ room on the left-hand side as you go in, +and put a new grate in the kitchen and turned that into the livin’ room, +and they does the cooking in the back kitchen, but for all that, if I’d +been her, I’d never have seen his face no more, and I’d have packed off +to Australia.’ + +‘Does anybody go near them?’ + +‘Near them! of course they do, and, as true as I’m a-sittin’ here, our +parson, who married them, went to the breakfast. It isn’t Chorley as I +blame so much; he’s a poor, snivellin’ creature, and he was frightened, +but it’s the girl. She doesn’t care for him no more than me, and then +again, although, as I tell you, he’s such a poor creature, he’s awful +cruel and mean, and she knows it. But what was I a-goin’ to say? Never +shall I forget that wedding. You know as it’s a short cut to the church +across the farmyard at the back of my house. The parson, he was rather +late—I suppose he’d been giving himself a finishin’ touch—and, as it had +been very dry weather, he went across the straw and stuff just at the +edge like of the yard. There was a pig under the straw—pigs, my dear,’ +turning to Clara, ‘nuzzle under the straw so as you can’t see them. Just +as he came to this pig it started up and upset him, and he fell and +straddled across its back, and the Lord have mercy on me if it didn’t +carry him at an awful rate, as if he was a jockey at Epsom races, till it +come to a puddle of dung water, and then down he plumped in it. You +never see’d a man in such a pickle! I heer’d the pig a-squeakin’ like +mad, and I ran to the door, and I called out to him, and I says, “Mr +Ormiston, won’t you come in here?” and though, as you know, he allus +hated me, he had to come. Mussy on us, how he did stink, and he saw me +turn up my nose, and he was wild with rage, and he called the pig a +filthy beast. I says to him as that was the pig’s way and the pig didn’t +know who it was who was a-ridin’ it, and I took his coat off and wiped +his stockings, and sent to the rectory for another coat, and he crept up +under the hedge to his garden, and went home, and the people at church +had to wait for an hour. I was glad I was goin’ away from Great +Oakhurst, for he never would have forgiven me.’ + +There was a ring at the front door bell, and Clara went to see who was +there. It was a runaway ring, but she took the opportunity of going +upstairs to Madge. + +‘She has a sister?’ said Baruch. + +‘Yes, and I may just as well tell you about her now—leastways what I +know—and I believe as I know pretty near everything about her. You’ll +have to be told if they stay here. She was engaged to be married, and +how it came about with a girl like that is a bit beyond me, anyhow, +there’s a child, and the father’s a good sort by what I can make out, but +she won’t have anything more to do with him.’ + +‘What do you mean by “a girl like that.”’ + +‘She isn’t one of them as goes wrong; she can talk German and reads +books.’ + +‘Did he desert her?’ + +‘No, that’s just it. She loves me, although I say it, as if I was her +mother, and yet I’m just as much in the dark as I was the first day I saw +her as to why she left that man.’ + +Mrs Caffyn wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron. + +‘It’s gospel truth as I never took to anybody as I’ve took to her.’ + +After Baruch had gone, Clara returned. + +‘He’s a curious creature, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, ‘as good as gold, +but he’s too solemn by half. It would do him a world of good if he’d +somebody with him who’d make him laugh more. He _can_ laugh, for I’ve +seen him forced to get up and hold his sides, but he never makes no +noise. He’s a Jew, and they say as them as crucified our blessed Lord +never laugh proper. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +BARUCH was now in love. He had fallen in love with Clara suddenly and +totally. His tendency to reflectiveness did not diminish his passion: it +rather augmented it. The men and women whose thoughts are here and there +continually are not the people to feel the full force of love. Those who +do feel it are those who are accustomed to think of one thing at a time, +and to think upon it for a long time. ‘No man,’ said Baruch once, ‘can +love a woman unless he loves God.’ ‘I should say,’ smilingly replied the +Gentile, ‘that no man can love God unless he loves a woman.’ ‘I am +right,’ said Baruch, ‘and so are you.’ + +But Baruch looked in the glass: his hair, jet black when he was a youth, +was marked with grey, and once more the thought came to him—this time +with peculiar force—that he could not now expect a woman to love him as +she had a right to demand that he should love, and that he must be +silent. He was obliged to call upon Barnes in about a fortnight’s time. +He still read Hebrew, and he had seen in the shop a copy of the Hebrew +translation of the _Moreh Nevochim_ of Maimonides, which he greatly +coveted, but could not afford to buy. Like every true book-lover, he +could not make up his mind when he wished for a book which was beyond his +means that he ought once for all to renounce it, and he was guilty of +subterfuges quite unworthy of such a reasonable creature in order to +delude himself into the belief that he might yield. For example, he +wanted a new overcoat badly, but determined it was more prudent to wait, +and a week afterwards very nearly came to the conclusion that as he had +not ordered the coat he had actually accumulated a fund from which the +_Moreh Nevochim_ might be purchased. When he came to the shop he saw +Barnes was there, and he persuaded himself he should have a quieter +moment or two with the precious volume when Clara was alone. Barnes, of +course, gossiped with everybody. + +He therefore called again in the evening, about half an hour before +closing time, and found that Barnes had gone home. Clara was busy with a +catalogue, the proof of which she was particularly anxious to send to the +printer that night. He did not disturb her, but took down the +Maimonides, and for a few moments was lost in revolving the doctrine, +afterwards repeated and proved by a greater than Maimonides, that the +will and power of God are co-extensive: that there is nothing which might +be and is not. It was familiar to Baruch, but like all ideas of that +quality and magnitude—and there are not many of them—it was always new +and affected him like a starry night, seen hundreds of times, yet for +ever infinite and original. + +But was it Maimonides which kept him till the porter began to put up the +shutters? Was he pondering exclusively upon God as the folio lay open +before him? He did think about Him, but whether he would have thought +about Him for nearly twenty minutes if Clara had not been there is +another matter. + +‘Do you walk home alone?’ he said as she gave the proof to the boy who +stood waiting. + +‘Yes, always.’ + +‘I am going to see Marshall to-night, but I must go to Newman Street +first. I shall be glad to walk with you, if you do not mind diverging a +little.’ + +She consented and they went along Oxford Street without speaking, the +roar of the carriages and waggons preventing a word. + +They turned, however, into Bloomsbury, and were able to hear one another. +He had much to say and he could not begin to say it. There was a great +mass of something to be communicated pent up within him, and he would +have liked to pour it all out before her at once. It is just at such +times that we often take up as a means of expression and relief that +which is absurdly inexpressive and irrelevant. + +‘I have not seen your sister yet; I hope I may see her this evening.’ + +‘I hope you may, but she frequently suffers from headache and prefers to +be alone.’ + +‘How do you like Mr Barnes?’ + +The answer is not worth recording, nor is any question or answer which +was asked or returned for the next quarter of an hour worth recording, +although they were so interesting then. When they were crossing Bedford +Square on their return Clara happened to say amongst other commonplaces,— + +‘What a relief a quiet space in London is.’ + +‘I do not mind the crowd if I am by myself.’ + +‘I do not like crowds; I dislike even the word, and dislike “the masses” +still more. I do not want to think of human beings as if they were a +cloud of dust, and as if each atom had no separate importance. London is +often horrible to me for that reason. In the country it was not quite so +bad.’ + +‘That is an illusion,’ said Baruch after a moment’s pause. + +‘I do not quite understand you, but if it be an illusion it is very +painful. In London human beings seem the commonest, cheapest things in +the world, and I am one of them. I went with Mr Marshall not long ago to +a Free Trade Meeting, and more than two thousand people were present. +Everybody told me it was magnificent, but it made me very sad.’ She was +going on, but she stopped. How was it, she thought again, that she could +be so communicative? How was it? How is it that sometimes a stranger +crosses our path, with whom, before we have known him for more than an +hour, we have no secrets? An hour? we have actually known him for +centuries. + +She could not understand it, and she felt as if she had been inconsistent +with her constant professions of wariness in self-revelation. + +‘It is an illusion, nevertheless—an illusion of the senses. It is +difficult to make what I mean clear, because insight is not possible +beyond a certain point, and clearness does not come until penetration is +complete and what we acquire is brought into a line with other +acquisitions. It constantly happens that we are arrested short of this +point, but it would be wrong to suppose that our conclusions, if we may +call them so, are of no value.’ + +She was silent, and he did not go on. At last he said,— + +‘The illusion lies in supposing that number, quantity and terms of that +kind are applicable to any other than sensuous objects, but I cannot go +further, at least not now. After all, it is possible here in London for +one atom to be of eternal importance to another.’ + +They had gone quite round Bedford Square without entering Great Russell +Street, which was the way eastwards. A drunken man was holding on by the +railings of the Square. He had apparently been hesitating for some time +whether he could reach the road, and, just as Baruch and Clara came up to +him, he made a lurch towards it, and nearly fell over them. Clara +instinctively seized Baruch’s arm in order to avoid the poor, staggering +mortal; they went once more to the right, and began to complete another +circuit. Somehow her arm had been drawn into Baruch’s, and there it +remained. + +‘Have you any friends in London?’ said Baruch. + +‘There are Mrs Caffyn, her son and daughter, and there is Mr A. J. Scott. +He was a friend of my father.’ + +‘You mean the Mr Scott who was Irving’s assistant?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘An addition—’ he was about to say, ‘an additional bond’ but he corrected +himself. ‘A bond between us; I know Mr Scott.’ + +‘Do you really? I suppose you know many interesting people in London, as +you are in his circle.’ + +‘Very few; weeks, months have passed since anybody has said as much to me +as you have.’ + +His voice quivered a little, for he was trembling with an emotion quite +inexplicable by mere intellectual relationship. Something came through +Clara’s glove as her hand rested on his wrist which ran through every +nerve and sent the blood into his head. + +Clara felt his excitement and dreaded lest he should say something to +which she could give no answer, and when they came opposite Great Russell +Street, she withdrew her arm from his, and began to cross to the opposite +pavement. She turned the conversation towards some indifferent subject, +and in a few minutes they were at Great Ormond Street. Baruch would not +go in as he had intended; he thought it was about to rain, and he was +late. As he went along he became calmer, and when he was fairly indoors +he had passed into a despair entirely inconsistent—superficially—with the +philosopher Baruch, as inconsistent as the irrational behaviour in +Bedford Square. He could well enough interpret, so he believed, Miss +Hopgood’s suppression of him. Ass that he was not to see what he ought +to have known so well, that he was playing the fool to her; he, with a +grown-up son, to pretend to romance with a girl! At that moment she +might be mocking him, or, if she was too good for mockery, she might be +contriving to avoid or to quench him. The next time he met her, he would +be made to understand that he was _pitied_, and perhaps he would then +learn the name of the youth who was his rival, and had won her. He would +often meet her, no doubt, but of what value would anything he could say +be to her. She could not be expected to make fine distinctions, and +there was a class of elderly men, to which of course he would be +assigned, but the thought was too horrible. + +Perhaps his love for Clara might be genuine; perhaps it was not. He had +hoped that as he grew older he might be able really to _see_ a woman, but +he was once more like one of the possessed. It was not Clara Hopgood who +was before him, it was hair, lips, eyes, just as it was twenty years ago, +just as it was with the commonest shop-boy he met, who had escaped from +the counter, and was waiting at an area gate. It was terrible to him to +find that he had so nearly lost his self-control, but upon this point he +was unjust to himself, for we are often more distinctly aware of the +strength of the temptation than of the authority within us, which +falteringly, but decisively, enables us at last to resist it. + +Then he fell to meditating how little his studies had done for him. What +was the use of them? They had not made him any stronger, and he was no +better able than other people to resist temptation. After twenty years +continuous labour he found himself capable of the vulgarest, coarsest +faults and failings from which the remotest skiey influence in his +begetting might have saved him. + +Clara was not as Baruch. No such storm as that which had darkened and +disheartened him could pass over her, but she could love, perhaps better +than he, and she began to love him. It was very natural to a woman such +as Clara, for she had met a man who had said to her that what she +believed was really of some worth. Her father and mother had been very +dear to her; her sister was very dear to her, but she had never received +any such recognition as that which had now been offered to her: her own +self had never been returned to her with such honour. She thought, +too—why should she not think it?—of the future, of the release from her +dreary occupation, of a happy home with independence, and she thought of +the children that might be. She lay down without any misgiving. She was +sure he was in love with her; she did not know much of him, certainly, in +the usual meaning of the word, but she knew enough. She would like to +find out more of his history; perhaps without exciting suspicion she +might obtain it from Mrs Caffyn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +MR FRANK PALMER was back again in England. He was much distressed when +he received that last letter from Mrs Caffyn, and discovered that Madge’s +resolution not to write remained unshaken. He was really distressed, but +he was not the man upon whom an event, however deeply felt at the time, +could score a furrow which could not be obliterated. If he had been a +dramatic personage, what had happened to him would have been the second +act leading to a fifth, in which the Fates would have appeared, but life +seldom arranges itself in proper poetic form. A man determines that he +must marry; he makes the shop-girl an allowance, never sees her or her +child again, transforms himself into a model husband, is beloved by his +wife and family; the woman whom he kissed as he will never kiss his +lawful partner, withdraws completely, and nothing happens to him. + +Frank was sure he could never love anybody as he had loved Madge, nor +could he cut indifferently that other cord which bound him to her. +Nobody in society expects the same paternal love for the offspring of a +housemaid or a sempstress as for the child of the stockbroker’s or +brewer’s daughter, and nobody expects the same obligations, but Frank was +not a society youth, and Madge was his equal. A score of times, when his +fancy roved, the rope checked him as suddenly as if it were the lasso of +a South American Gaucho. But what could he do? that was the point. +There were one or two things which he could have done, perhaps, and one +or two things which he could not have done if he had been made of +different stuff; but there was nothing more to be done which Frank Palmer +could do. After all, it was better that Madge should be the child’s +mother than that it should belong to some peasant. At least it would be +properly educated. As to money, Mrs Caffyn had told him expressly that +she did not want it. That might be nothing but pride, and he resolved, +without very clearly seeing how, and without troubling himself for the +moment as to details, that Madge should be entirely and handsomely +supported by him. Meanwhile it was of great importance that he should +behave in such a manner as to raise no suspicion. He did not +particularly care for some time after his return from Germany to go out +to the musical parties to which he was constantly invited, but he went as +a duty, and wherever he went he met his charming cousin. They always +sang together; they had easy opportunities of practising together, and +Frank, although nothing definite was said to him, soon found that his +family and hers considered him destined for her. He could not retreat, +and there was no surprise manifested by anybody when it was rumoured that +they were engaged. His story may as well be finished at once. He and +Miss Cecilia Morland were married. A few days before the wedding, when +some legal arrangements and settlements were necessary, Frank made one +last effort to secure an income for Madge, but it failed. Mrs Caffyn met +him by appointment, but he could not persuade her even to be the bearer +of a message to Madge. He then determined to confess his fears. To his +great relief Mrs Caffyn of her own accord assured him that he never need +dread any disturbance or betrayal. + +‘There are three of us,’ she said, ‘as knows you—Miss Madge, Miss Clara +and myself—and, as far as you are concerned, we are dead and buried. I +can’t say as I was altogether of Miss Madge’s way of looking at it at +first, and I thought it ought to have been different, though I believe +now as she’s right, but,’ and the old woman suddenly fired up as if some +bolt from heaven had kindled her, ‘I pity you, sir—you, sir, I say—more +nor I do her. You little know what you’ve lost, the blessedest, +sweetest, ah, and the cleverest creature, too, as ever I set eyes on.’ + +‘But, Mrs Caffyn,’ said Frank, with much emotion, ‘it was not I who left +her, you know it was not, and, and even—’ + +The word ‘now’ was coming, but it did not come. + +‘Ah,’ said Mrs Caffyn, with something like scorn, ‘_I_ know, yes, I do +know. It was she, you needn’t tell me that, but, God-a-mighty in heaven, +if I’d been you, I’d have laid myself on the ground afore her, I’d have +tore my heart out for her, and I’d have said, “No other woman in this +world but you”—but there, what a fool I am! Goodbye, Mr Palmer.’ + +She marched away, leaving Frank very miserable, and, as he imagined, +unsettled, but he was not so. The fit lasted all day, but when he was +walking home that evening, he met a poor friend whose wife was dying. + +‘I am so grieved,’ said Frank ‘to hear of your trouble—no hope?’ + +‘None, I am afraid.’ + +‘It is very dreadful.’ + +‘Yes, it is hard to bear, but to what is inevitable we must submit.’ + +This new phrase struck Frank very much, and it seemed very philosophic to +him, a maxim, for guidance through life. It did not strike him that it +was generally either a platitude or an excuse for weakness, and that a +nobler duty is to find out what is inevitable and what is not, to declare +boldly that what the world oftentimes affirms to be inevitable is really +evitable, and heroically to set about making it so. Even if revolt be +perfectly useless, we are not particularly drawn to a man who prostrates +himself too soon and is incapable of a little cursing. + +As it was impossible to provide for Madge and the child now, Frank +considered whether he could not do something for them in the will which +he had to make before his marriage. He might help his daughter if he +could not help the mother. + +But his wife would perhaps survive him, and the discovery would cause her +and her children much misery; it would damage his character with them and +inflict positive moral mischief. The will, therefore, did not mention +Madge, and it was not necessary to tell his secret to his solicitor. + +The wedding took place amidst much rejoicing; everybody thought the +couple were most delightfully matched; the presents were magnificent; the +happy pair went to Switzerland, came back and settled in one of the +smaller of the old, red brick houses in Stoke Newington, with a lawn in +front, always shaved and trimmed to the last degree of smoothness and +accuracy, with paths on whose gravel not the smallest weed was ever seen, +and with a hot-house that provided the most luscious black grapes. There +was a grand piano in the drawing-room, and Frank and Cecilia became more +musical than ever, and Waltham Lodge was the headquarters of a little +amateur orchestra which practised Mozart and Haydn, and gave local +concerts. A twelvemonth after the marriage a son was born and Frank’s +father increased Frank’s share in the business. Mr Palmer had long +ceased to take any interest in the Hopgoods. He considered that Madge +had treated Frank shamefully in jilting him, but was convinced that he +was fortunate in his escape. It was clear that she was unstable; she +probably threw him overboard for somebody more attractive, and she was +not the woman to be a wife to his son. + +One day Cecilia was turning out some drawers belonging to her husband, +and she found a dainty little slipper wrapped up in white tissue paper. +She looked at it for a long time, wondering to whom it could have +belonged, and had half a mind to announce her discovery to Frank, but she +was a wise woman and forbore. It lay underneath some neckties which were +not now worn, two or three silk pocket handkerchiefs also discarded, and +some manuscript books containing school themes. She placed them on the +top of the drawers as if they had all been taken out in a lump and the +slipper was at the bottom. + +‘Frank my dear,’ she said after dinner, ‘I emptied this morning one of +the drawers in the attic. I wish you would look over the things and +decide what you wish to keep. I have not examined them, but they seem to +be mostly rubbish.’ + +He went upstairs after he had smoked his cigar and read his paper. There +was the slipper! It all came back to him, that never-to-be-forgotten +night, when she rebuked him for the folly of kissing her foot, and he +begged the slipper and determined to preserve it for ever, and thought +how delightful it would be to take it out and look at it when he was an +old man. Even now he did not like to destroy it, but Cecilia might have +seen it and might ask him what he had done with it, and what could he +say? Finally he decided to burn it. There was no fire, however, in the +room, and while he stood meditating, Cecilia called him. He replaced the +slipper in the drawer. He could not return that evening, but he intended +to go back the next morning, take the little parcel away in his pocket +and burn it at his office. At breakfast some letters came which put +everything else out of mind. The first thing he did that evening was to +revisit the garret, but the slipper had gone. Cecilia had been there and +had found it carefully folded up in the drawer. She pulled it out, +snipped and tore it into fifty pieces, carried them downstairs, threw +them on the dining-room fire, sat down before it, poking them further and +further into the flames, and watched them till every vestige had +vanished. Frank did not like to make any inquiries; Cecilia made none, +and thence-forward no trace existed at Waltham Lodge of Madge Hopgood. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +BARUCH went neither to Barnes’s shop nor to the Marshalls for nearly a +month. One Sunday morning he was poring over the _Moreh Nevochim_, for +it had proved too powerful a temptation for him, and he fell upon the +theorem that without God the Universe could not continue to exist, for +God is its Form. It was one of those sayings which may be nothing or +much to the reader. Whether it be nothing or much depends upon the +quality of his mind. + +There was certainly nothing in it particularly adapted to Baruch’s +condition at that moment, but an antidote may be none the less +efficacious because it is not direct. It removed him to another region. +It was like the sight and sound of the sea to the man who has been in +trouble in an inland city. His self-confidence was restored, for he to +whom an idea is revealed becomes the idea, and is no longer personal and +consequently poor. + +His room seemed too small for him; he shut his book and went to Great +Ormond Street. He found there Marshall, Mrs Caffyn, Clara and a friend +of Marshall’s named Dennis. + +‘Where is your wife?’ said Baruch to Marshall. + +‘Gone with Miss Madge to the Catholic chapel to hear a mass of Mozart’s.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mrs Caffyn. ‘I tell them they’ll turn Papists if they do not +mind. They are always going to that place, and there’s no knowing, so +I’ve hear’d, what them priests can do. They aren’t like our parsons. +Catch that man at Great Oakhurst a-turnin’ anybody.’ + +‘I suppose,’ said Baruch to Clara, ‘it is the music takes your sister +there?’ + +‘Mainly, I believe, but perhaps not entirely.’ + +‘What other attraction can there be?’ + +‘I am not in the least disposed to become a convert. Once for all, +Catholicism is incredible and that is sufficient, but there is much in +its ritual which suits me. There is no such intrusion of the person of +the minister as there is in the Church of England, and still worse +amongst dissenters. In the Catholic service the priest is nothing; it is +his office which is everything; he is a mere means of communication. The +mass, in so far as it proclaims that miracle is not dead, is also very +impressive to me.’ + +‘I do not quite understand you,’ said Marshall, ‘but if you once chuck +your reason overboard, you may just as well be Catholic as Protestant. +Nothing can be more ridiculous than the Protestant objection, on the +ground of absurdity, to the story of the saint walking about with his +head under his arm.’ + +The tea things had been cleared away, and Marshall was smoking. Both he +and Dennis were Chartists, and Baruch had interrupted a debate upon a +speech delivered at a Chartist meeting that morning by Henry Vincent. + +Frederick Dennis was about thirty, tall and rather loose-limbed. He wore +loose clothes, his neck-cloth was tied in a big, loose knot, his feet +were large and his boots were heavy. His face was quite smooth, and his +hair, which was very thick and light brown, fell across his forehead in a +heavy wave with just two complete undulations in it from the parting at +the side to the opposite ear. It had a trick of tumbling over his eyes, +so that his fingers were continually passed through it to brush it away. +He was a wood engraver, or, as he preferred to call himself, an artist, +but he also wrote for the newspapers, and had been a contributor to the +_Northern Star_. He was well brought up and was intended for the +University, but he did not stick to his Latin and Greek, and as he showed +some talent for drawing he was permitted to follow his bent. His work, +however, was not of first-rate quality, and consequently orders were not +abundant. This was the reason why he had turned to literature. When he +had any books to illustrate he lived upon what they brought him, and when +there were no books he renewed his acquaintance with politics. If books +and newspapers both failed, he subsisted on a little money which had been +left him, stayed with friends as long as he could, and amused himself by +writing verses which showed much command over rhyme. + +‘I cannot stand Vincent,’ said Marshall, ‘he is too flowery for me, and +he does not belong to the people. He is middle-class to the backbone.’ + +‘He is deficient in ideas,’ said Dennis. + +‘It is odd,’ continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, ‘that your race never +takes any interest in politics.’ + +‘My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no national home. It took +an interest in politics when it was in its own country, and produced some +rather remarkable political writing.’ + +‘But why do you care so little for what is going on now?’ + +‘I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, and, +furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish all you +expect.’ + +‘I know what is coming’—Marshall took the pipe out of his mouth and spoke +with perceptible sarcasm—‘the inefficiency of merely external remedies, +the folly of any attempt at improvement which does not begin with the +improvement of individual character, and that those to whom we intend to +give power are no better than those from whom we intend to take it away. +All very well, Mr Cohen. My answer is that at the present moment the +stockingers in Leicester are earning four shillings and sixpence a week. +It is not a question whether they are better or worse than their rulers. +They want something to eat, they have nothing, and their masters have +more than they can eat.’ + +‘Apart altogether from purely material reasons,’ said Dennis, ‘we have +rights; we are born into this planet without our consent, and, therefore, +we may make certain demands.’ + +‘Do you not think,’ said Clara, ‘that the repeal of the corn laws will +help you?’ + +Dennis smiled and was about to reply, but Marshall broke out savagely,— + +‘Repeal of the corn laws is a contemptible device of manufacturing +selfishness. It means low wages. Do you suppose the great Manchester +cotton lords care one straw for their hands? Not they! They will face a +revolution for repeal because it will enable them to grind an extra +profit out of us.’ + +‘I agree with you entirely,’ said Dennis, turning to Clara, ‘that a tax +upon food is wrong; it is wrong in the abstract. The notion of taxing +bread, the fruit of the earth, is most repulsive; but the point is—what +is our policy to be? If a certain end is to be achieved, we must neglect +subordinate ends, and, at times, even contradict what our own principles +would appear to dictate. That is the secret of successful leadership.’ + +He took up the poker and stirred the fire. + +‘That will do, Dennis,’ said Marshall, who was evidently fidgety. ‘The +room is rather warm. There’s nothing in Vincent which irritates me more +than those bits of poetry with which he winds up. + + “God made the man—man made the slave,” + +and all that stuff. If God made the man, God made the slave. I know +what Vincent’s little game is, and it is the same game with all his set. +They want to keep Chartism religious, but we shall see. Let us once get +the six points, and the Established Church will go, and we shall have +secular education, and in a generation there will not be one superstition +left.’ + +‘Theological superstition, you mean?’ said Clara. + +‘Yes, of course, what others are there worth notice?’ + +‘A few. The superstition of the ordinary newspaper reader is just as +profound, and the tyranny of the majority may be just as injurious as the +superstition of a Spanish peasant, or the tyranny of the Inquisition.’ + +‘Newspapers will not burn people as the priests did and would do again if +they had the power, and they do not insult us with fables and a hell and +a heaven.’ + +‘I maintain,’ said Clara with emphasis, ‘that if a man declines to +examine, and takes for granted what a party leader or a newspaper tells +him, he has no case against the man who declines to examine, or takes for +granted what the priest tells him. Besides, although, as you know, I am +not a convert myself, I do lose a little patience when I hear it preached +as a gospel to every poor conceited creature who goes to your Sunday +evening atheist lecture, that he is to believe nothing on one particular +subject which his own precious intellect cannot verify, and the next +morning he finds it to be his duty to swallow wholesale anything you +please to put into his mouth. As to the tyranny, the day may come, and I +believe is approaching, when the majority will be found to be more +dangerous than any ecclesiastical establishment which ever existed.’ + +Baruch’s lips moved, but he was silent. He was not strong in argument. +He was thinking about Marshall’s triumphant inquiry whether God is not +responsible for slavery. He would have liked to say something on that +subject, but he had nothing ready. + +‘Practical people,’ said Dennis, who had not quite recovered from the +rebuke as to the warmth of the room, ‘are often most unpractical and +injudicious. Nothing can be more unwise than to mix up politics and +religion. If you _do_,’ Dennis waved his hand, ‘you will have all the +religious people against you. My friend Marshall, Miss Hopgood, is under +the illusion that the Church in this country is tottering to its fall. +Now, although I myself belong to no sect, I do not share his illusion; +nay, more, I am not sure’—Mr Dennis spoke slowly, rubbed his chin and +looked up at the ceiling—‘I am not sure that there is not something to be +said in favour of State endowment—at least, in a country like Ireland.’ + +‘Come along, Dennis, we shall be late,’ said Marshall, and the two +forthwith took their departure in order to attend another meeting. + +‘Much either of ’em knows about it,’ said Mrs Caffyn when they had gone. +‘There’s Marshall getting two pounds a week reg’lar, and goes on talking +about people at Leicester, and he has never been in Leicester in his +life; and, as for that Dennis, he knows less than Marshall, for he does +nothing but write for newspapers and draw for picture-books, never +nothing what you may call work, and he does worrit me so whenever he +begins about poor people that I can’t sit still. _I_ do know what the +poor is, having lived at Great Oakhurst all these years.’ + +‘You are not a Chartist, then?’ said Baruch. + +‘Me—me a Chartist? No, I ain’t, and yet, maybe, I’m something worse. +What would be the use of giving them poor creatures votes? Why, there +isn’t one of them as wouldn’t hold up his hand for anybody as would give +him a shilling. Quite right of ’em, too, for the one thing they have to +think about from morning to night is how to get a bit of something to +fill their bellies, and they won’t fill them by voting.’ + +‘But what would you do for them?’ + +‘Ah! that beats me! Hang somebody, but I don’t know who it ought to be. +There’s a family by the name of Longwood, they live just on the slope of +the hill nigh the Dower Farm, and there’s nine of them, and the youngest +when I left was a baby six months old, and their living-room faces the +road so that the north wind blows in right under the door, and I’ve seen +the snow lie in heaps inside. As reg’lar as winter comes Longwood is +knocked off—no work. I’ve knowed them not have a bit of meat for weeks +together, and him a-loungin’ about at the corner of the street. Wasn’t +that enough to make him feel as if somebody ought to be killed? And +Marshall and Dennis say as the proper thing to do is to give him a vote, +and prove to him there was never no Abraham nor Isaac, and that Jonah +never was in a whale’s belly, and that nobody had no business to have +more children than he could feed. And what goes on, and what must go on, +inside such a place as Longwood’s, with him and his wife, and with them +boys and gals all huddled together—But I’d better hold my tongue. We’ll +let the smoke out of this room, I think, and air it a little.’ + +She opened the window, and Baruch rose and went home. + +Whenever Mrs Caffyn talked about the labourers at Great Oakhurst, whom +she knew so well, Clara always felt as if all her reading had been a +farce, and, indeed, if we come into close contact with actual life, art, +poetry and philosophy seem little better than trifling. When the mist +hangs over the heavy clay land in January, and men and women shiver in +the bitter cold and eat raw turnips, to indulge in fireside ecstasies +over the divine Plato or Shakespeare is surely not such a virtue as we +imagine it to be. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +BARUCH sat and mused before he went to bed. He had gone out stirred by +an idea, but it was already dead. Then he began to think about Clara. +Who was this Dennis who visited the Marshalls and the Hopgoods? Oh! for +an hour of his youth! Fifteen years ago the word would have come +unbidden if he had seen Clara, but now, in place of the word, there was +hesitation, shame. He must make up his mind to renounce for ever. But, +although this conclusion had forced itself upon him overnight as +inevitable, he could not resist the temptation when he rose the next +morning of plotting to meet Clara, and he walked up and down the street +opposite the shop door that evening nearly a quarter of an hour, just +before closing time, hoping that she might come out and that he might +have the opportunity of overtaking her apparently by accident. At last, +fearing he might miss her, he went in and found she had a companion whom +he instantly knew, before any induction, to be her sister. Madge was not +now the Madge whom we knew at Fenmarket. She was thinner in the face and +paler. Nevertheless, she was not careless; she was even more particular +in her costume, but it was simpler. If anything, perhaps, she was a +little prouder. She was more attractive, certainly, than she had ever +been, although her face could not be said to be handsomer. The slight +prominence of the cheek-bone, the slight hollow underneath, the loss of +colour, were perhaps defects, but they said something which had a meaning +in it superior to that of the tint of the peach. She had been reading a +book while Clara was balancing her cash, and she attempted to replace it. +The shelf was a little too high, and the volume fell upon the ground. It +contained Shelley’s _Revolt of Islam_. + +‘Have you read Shelley?’ said Baruch. + +‘Every line—when I was much younger.’ + +‘Do you read him now?’ + +‘Not much. I was an enthusiast for him when I was nineteen, but I find +that his subject matter is rather thin, and his themes are a little worn. +He was entirely enslaved by the ideals of the French Revolution. Take +away what the French Revolution contributed to his poetry, and there is +not much left.’ + +‘As a man he is not very attractive to me.’ + +‘Nor to me; I never shall forgive his treatment of Harriet.’ + +‘I suppose he had ceased to love her, and he thought, therefore, he was +justified in leaving her.’ + +Madge turned and fixed her eyes, unobserved, on Baruch. He was looking +straight at the bookshelves. There was not, and, indeed, how could there +be, any reference to herself. + +‘I should put it in this way,’ she said, ‘that he thought he was +justified in sacrificing a woman for the sake of an _impulse_. Call this +a defect or a crime—whichever you like—it is repellent to me. It makes +no difference to me to know that he believed the impulse to be divine.’ + +‘I wish,’ interrupted Clara, ‘you two would choose less exciting subjects +of conversation; my totals will not come right.’ + +They were silent, and Baruch, affecting to study a Rollin’s _Ancient +History_, wondered, especially when he called to mind Mrs Caffyn’s +report, what this girl’s history could have been. He presently recovered +himself, and it occurred to him that he ought to give some reason why he +had called. Before, however, he was able to offer any excuse, Clara +closed her book. + +‘Now, it is right,’ she said, ‘and I am ready.’ + +Just at that moment Barnes appeared, hot with hurrying. + +‘Very sorry, Miss Hopgood, to ask you to stay for a few minutes. I +recollected after I left that the doctor particularly wanted those books +sent off to-night. I should not like to disappoint him. I have been to +the booking-office, and the van will be here in about twenty minutes. If +you will make out the invoice and check me, I will pack them.’ + +‘I will be off,’ said Madge. ‘The shop will be shut if I do not make +haste.’ + +‘You are not going alone, are you?’ said Baruch. ‘May I not go with you, +and cannot we both come back for your sister?’ + +‘It is very kind of you.’ + +Clara looked up from her desk, watched them as they went out at the door +and, for a moment, seemed lost. Barnes turned round. + +‘Now, Miss Hopgood.’ She started. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘_Fabricius_, _J. A._ _Bibliotheca Ecclesiastica in qua continentur_.’ + +‘I need not put in the last three words.’ + +‘Yes, yes.’ Barnes never liked to be corrected in a title. ‘There’s +another _Fabricius Bibliotheca_ or _Bibliographia_. Go on—_Basili opera +ad MSS. codices_, 3 vols.’ + +Clara silently made the entries a little more scholarly. In a quarter of +an hour the parcel was ready and Cohen returned. + +‘Your sister would not allow me to wait. She met Mrs Marshall; they said +they should have something to carry, and that it was not worth while to +bring it here. I will walk with you, if you will allow me. We may as +well avoid Holborn.’ + +They turned into Gray’s Inn, and, when they were in comparative quietude, +he said,— + +‘Any Chartist news?’ and then without waiting for an answer, ‘By the way, +who is your friend Dennis?’ + +‘He is no particular friend of mine. He is a wood-engraver, and writes +also, I believe, for the newspapers.’ + +‘He can talk as well as write.’ + +‘Yes, he can talk very well.’ + +‘Do you not think there was something unreal about what he said?’ + +‘I do not believe he is actually insincere. I have noticed that men who +write or read much often appear somewhat shadowy.’ + +‘How do you account for it?’ + +‘What they say is not experience.’ + +‘I do not quite understand. A man may think much which can never become +an experience in your sense of the word, and be very much in earnest with +what he thinks; the thinking is an experience.’ + +‘Yes, I suppose so, but it is what a person has gone through which I like +to hear. Poor Dennis has suffered much. You are perhaps surprised, but +it is true, and when he leaves politics alone he is a different +creature.’ + +‘I am afraid I must be very uninteresting to you?’ + +‘I did not mean that I care for nothing but my friend’s aches and pains, +but that I do not care for what he just takes up and takes on.’ + +‘It is my misfortune that my subjects are not very—I was about to +say—human. Perhaps it is because I am a Jew.’ + +‘I do not know quite what you mean by your “subjects,” but if you mean +philosophy and religion, they are human.’ + +‘If they are, very few people like to hear anything about them. Do you +know, Miss Hopgood, I can never talk to anybody as I can to you.’ + +Clara made no reply. A husband was to be had for a look, for a touch, a +husband whom she could love, a husband who could give her all her +intellect demanded. A little house rose before her eyes as if by Arabian +enchantment; there was a bright fire on the hearth, and there were +children round it; without the look, the touch, there would be solitude, +silence and a childless old age, so much more to be feared by a woman +than by a man. Baruch paused, waiting for her answer, and her tongue +actually began to move with a reply, which would have sent his arm round +her, and made them one for ever, but it did not come. Something fell and +flashed before her like lightning from a cloud overhead, divinely +beautiful, but divinely terrible. + +‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that I have to call in Lamb’s Conduit Street to +buy something for my sister. I shall just be in time.’ Baruch went as +far as Lamb’s Conduit Street with her. He, too, would have determined +his own destiny if she had uttered the word, but the power to proceed +without it was wanting and he fell back. He left her at the door of the +shop. She bid him good-bye, obviously intending that he should go no +further with her, and he shook hands with her, taking her hand again and +shaking it again with a grasp which she knew well enough was too fervent +for mere friendship. He then wandered back once more to his old room at +Clerkenwell. The fire was dead, he stirred it, the cinders fell through +the grate and it dropped out all together. He made no attempt to +rekindle it, but sat staring at the black ashes, not thinking, but +dreaming. Thirty years more perhaps with no change! The last chance +that he could begin a new life had disappeared. He cursed himself that +nothing drove him out of himself with Marshall and his fellowmen; that he +was not Chartist nor revolutionary; but it was impossible to create in +himself enthusiasm for a cause. He had tried before to become a patriot +and had failed, and was conscious, during the trial, that he was +pretending to be something he was not and could not be. There was +nothing to be done but to pace the straight road in front of him, which +led nowhere, so far as he could see. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +A MONTH afterwards Marshall announced that he intended to pay a visit. + +‘I am going,’ he said, ‘to see Mazzini. Who will go with me?’ + +Clara and Madge were both eager to accompany him. Mrs Caffyn and Mrs +Marshall chose to stay at home. + +‘I shall ask Cohen to come with us,’ said Marshall. ‘He has never seen +Mazzini and would like to know him.’ Cohen accordingly called one Sunday +evening, and the party went together to a dull, dark, little house in a +shabby street of small shops and furnished apartments. When they knocked +at Mazzini’s door Marshall asked for Mr — for, even in England, Mazzini +had an assumed name which was always used when inquiries were made for +him. They were shown upstairs into a rather mean room, and found there a +man, really about forty, but looking older. He had dark hair growing +away from his forehead, dark moustache, dark beard and a singularly +serious face. It was not the face of a conspirator, but that of a saint, +although without that just perceptible touch of silliness which spoils +the faces of most saints. It was the face of a saint of the Reason, of a +man who could be ecstatic for rational ideals, rarest of all endowments. +It was the face, too, of one who knew no fear, or, if he knew it, could +crush it. He was once concealed by a poor woman whose house was +surrounded by Austrian soldiers watching for him. He was determined that +she should not be sacrificed, and, having disguised himself a little, +walked out into the street in broad daylight, went up to the Austrian +sentry, asked for a light for his cigar and escaped. He was cordial in +his reception of his visitors, particularly of Clara, Madge and Cohen, +whom he had not seen before. + +‘The English,’ he said, after some preliminary conversation, ‘are a +curious people. As a nation they are what they call practical and have a +contempt for ideas, but I have known some Englishmen who have a religious +belief in them, a nobler belief than I have found in any other nation. +There are English women, also, who have this faith, and one or two are +amongst my dearest friends.’ + +‘I never,’ said Marshall, ‘quite comprehend you on this point. I should +say that we know as clearly as most folk what we want, and we mean to +have it.’ + +‘That may be, but it is not Justice, as Justice which inspires you. +Those of you who have not enough, desire to have more, that is all.’ + +‘If we are to succeed, we must preach what the people understand.’ + +‘Pardon me, that is just where you and I differ. Whenever any real good +is done it is by a crusade; that is to say, the cross must be raised and +appeal be made to something _above_ the people. No system based on +rights will stand. Never will society be permanent till it is founded on +duty. If we consider our rights exclusively, we extend them over the +rights of our neighbours. If the oppressed classes had the power to +obtain their rights to-morrow, and with the rights came no deeper sense +of duty, the new order, for the simple reason that the oppressed are no +better than their oppressors, would be just as unstable as that which +preceded it.’ + +‘To put it in my own language,’ said Madge, ‘you believe in God.’ + +Mazzini leaned forward and looked earnestly at her. + +‘My dear young friend, without that belief I should have no other.’ + +‘I should like, though,’ said Marshall, ‘to see the church which would +acknowledge you and Miss Madge, or would admit your God to be theirs.’ + +‘What is essential,’ replied Madge, ‘in a belief in God is absolute +loyalty to a principle we know to have authority.’ + +‘It may, perhaps,’ said Mazzini, ‘be more to me, but you are right, it is +a belief in the supremacy and ultimate victory of the conscience.’ + +‘The victory seems distant in Italy now,’ said Baruch. ‘I do not mean +the millennial victory of which you speak, but an approximation to it by +the overthrow of tyranny there.’ + +‘You are mistaken; it is far nearer than you imagine.’ + +‘Do you obtain,’ said Clara, ‘any real help from people here? Do you not +find that they merely talk and express what they call their sympathy?’ + +‘I must not say what help I have received; more than words, though, from +many.’ + +‘You expect, then,’ said Baruch, ‘that the Italians will answer your +appeal?’ + +‘If I had no faith in the people, I do not see what faith could survive.’ + +‘The people are the persons you meet in the street.’ + +‘A people is not a mere assemblage of uninteresting units, but it is not +a phantom. A spirit lives in each nation which is superior to any +individual in it. It is this which is the true reality, the nation’s +purpose and destiny, it is this for which the patriot lives and dies.’ + +‘I suppose,’ said Clara, ‘you have no difficulty in obtaining volunteers +for any dangerous enterprise?’ + +‘None. You would be amazed if I were to tell you how many men and women +at this very moment would go to meet certain death if I were to ask +them.’ + +‘Women?’ + +‘Oh, yes; and women are of the greatest use, but it is rather difficult +to find those who have the necessary qualifications.’ + +‘I suppose you employ them in order to obtain secret information?’ + +‘Yes; amongst the Austrians.’ + +The party broke up. Baruch manœuvred to walk with Clara, but Marshall +wanted to borrow a book from Mazzini, and she stayed behind for him. +Madge was outside in the street, and Baruch could do nothing but go to +her. She seemed unwilling to wait, and Baruch and she went slowly +homewards, thinking the others would overtake them. The conversation +naturally turned upon Mazzini. + +‘Although,’ said Madge, ‘I have never seen him before, I have heard much +about him and he makes me sad.’ + +‘Why?’ + +‘Because he has done something worth doing and will do more.’ + +‘But why should that make you sad?’ + +‘I do not think there is anything sadder than to know you are able to do +a little good and would like to do it, and yet you are not permitted to +do it. Mazzini has a world open to him large enough for the exercise of +all his powers.’ + +‘It is worse to have a desire which is intense but not definite, to be +continually anxious to do something, you know not what, and always to +feel, if any distinct task is offered, your incapability of attempting +it.’ + +‘A man, if he has a real desire to be of any service, can generally +gratify it to some extent; a woman as a rule cannot, although a woman’s +enthusiasm is deeper than a man’s. You can join Mazzini to-morrow, I +suppose, if you like.’ + +‘It is a supposition not quite justifiable, and if I were free to go I +could not.’ + +‘Why?’ + +‘I am not fitted for such work; I have not sufficient faith. When I see +a flag waving, a doubt always intrudes. Long ago I was forced to the +conclusion that I should have to be content with a life which did not +extend outside itself.’ + +‘I am sure that many women blunder into the wrong path, not because they +are bad, but simply because—if I may say so—they are too good.’ + +‘Maybe you are right. The inability to obtain mere pleasure has not +produced the misery which has been begotten of mistaken or baffled +self-sacrifice. But do you mean to say that you would like to enlist +under Mazzini?’ + +‘No!’ + +Baruch thought she referred to her child, and he was silent. + +‘You are a philosopher,’ said Madge, after a pause. ‘Have you never +discovered anything which will enable us to submit to be useless?’ + +‘That is to say, have I discovered a religion? for the core of religion +is the relationship of the individual to the whole, the faith that the +poorest and meanest of us is a person. That is the real strength of all +religions.’ + +‘Well, go on; what do you believe?’ + +‘I can only say it like a creed; I have no demonstration, at least none +such as I would venture to put into words. Perhaps the highest of all +truths is incapable of demonstration and can only be stated. Perhaps, +also, the statement, at least to some of us, is a sufficient +demonstration. I believe that inability to imagine a thing is not a +reason for its non-existence. If the infinite is a conclusion which is +forced upon me, the fact that I cannot picture it does not disprove it. +I believe, also, in thought and the soul, and it is nothing to me that I +cannot explain them by attributes belonging to body. That being so, the +difficulties which arise from the perpetual and unconscious confusion of +the qualities of thought and soul with those of body disappear. Our +imagination represents to itself souls like pebbles, and asks itself what +count can be kept of a million, but number in such a case is +inapplicable. I believe that all thought is a manifestation of the +Being, who is One, whom you may call God if you like, and that, as It +never was created, It will never be destroyed.’ + +‘But,’ said Madge, interrupting him, ‘although you began by warning me +not to expect that you would prove anything, you can tell me whether you +have any kind of basis for what you say, or whether it is all a dream.’ + +‘You will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that mathematics, which, of +course, I had to learn for my own business, have supplied something for a +foundation. They lead to ideas which are inconsistent with the notion +that the imagination is a measure of all things. Mind, I do not for a +moment pretend that I have any theory which explains the universe. It is +something, however, to know that the sky is as real as the earth.’ + +They had now reached Great Ormond Street, and parted. Clara and Marshall +were about five minutes behind them. Madge was unusually cheerful when +they sat down to supper. + +‘Clara,’ she said, ‘what made you so silent to-night at Mazzini’s?’ +Clara did not reply, but after a pause of a minute or two, she asked Mrs +Caffyn whether it would not be possible for them all to go into the +country on Whitmonday? Whitsuntide was late; it would be warm, and they +could take their food with them and eat it out of doors. + +‘Just the very thing, my dear, if we could get anything cheap to take us; +the baby, of course, must go with us. + +‘I should like above everything to go to Great Oakhurst.’ + +‘What, five of us—twenty miles there and twenty miles back! Besides, +although I love the place, it isn’t exactly what one would go to see just +for a day. No! Letherhead or Mickleham or Darkin would be ever so much +better. They are too far, though, and, then, that man Baruch must go +with us. He’d be company for Marshall, and he sticks up in Clerkenwell +and never goes nowhere. You remember as Marshall said as he must ask him +the next time we had an outing.’ + +Clara had not forgotten it. + +‘Ah,’ continued Mrs Caffyn, ‘I should just love to show you Mickleham.’ + +Mrs Caffyn’s heart yearned after her Surrey land. The man who is born in +a town does not know what it is to be haunted through life by lovely +visions of the landscape which lay about him when he was young. The +village youth leaves the home of his childhood for the city, but the +river doubling on itself, the overhanging alders and willows, the fringe +of level meadow, the chalk hills bounding the river valley and rising +against the sky, with here and there on their summits solitary clusters +of beech, the light and peace of the different seasons, of morning, +afternoon and evening, never forsake him. To think of them is not a mere +luxury; their presence modifies the whole of his life. + +‘I don’t see how it is to be managed,’ she mused; ‘and yet there’s +nothing near London as I’d give two pins to see. There’s Richmond as we +went to one Sunday; it was no better, to my way of thinking, than looking +at a picture. I’d ever so much sooner be a-walking across the turnips by +the footpath from Darkin home.’ + +‘Couldn’t we, for once in a way, stay somewhere over-night?’ + +‘It might as well be two,’ said Mrs Marshall; ‘Saturday and Sunday.’ + +‘Two,’ said Madge; ‘I vote for two.’ + +‘Wait a bit, my dears, we’re a precious awkward lot to fit in—Marshall +and his wife me and you and Miss Clara and the baby; and then there’s +Baruch, who’s odd man, so to speak; that’s three bedrooms. We sha’n’t do +it—Otherwise, I was a-thinking—’ + +‘What were you thinking?’ said Marshall. + +‘I’ve got it,’ said Mrs Caffyn, joyously. ‘Miss Clara and me will go to +Great Oakhurst on the Friday. We can easy enough stay at my old shop. +Marshall and Sarah, Miss Madge, the baby and Baruch can go to Letherhead +on the Saturday morning. The two women and the baby can have one of the +rooms at Skelton’s, and Marshall and Baruch can have the other. Then, on +Sunday morning, Miss Clara and me we’ll come over for you, and we’ll all +walk through Norbury Park. That’ll be ever so much better in many ways. +Miss Clara and me, we’ll go by the coach. Six of us, not reckoning the +baby, in that heavy ginger-beer cart of Masterman’s would be too much.’ + +‘An expensive holiday, rather,’ said Marshall. + +‘Leave that to me; that’s my business. I ain’t quite a beggar, and if we +can’t take our pleasure once a year, it’s a pity. We aren’t like some +folk as messes about up to Hampstead every Sunday, and spends a fortune +on shrimps and donkeys. No; when I go away, it _is_ away, maybe it’s +only for a couple of days, where I can see a blessed ploughed field; no +shrimps nor donkeys for me.’ + + + + +CHARTER XXIX + + +SO it was settled, and on the Friday Clara and Mrs Caffyn journeyed to +Great Oakhurst. They were both tired, and went to bed very early, in +order that they might enjoy the next day. Clara, always a light sleeper, +woke between three and four, rose and went to the little casement window +which had been open all night. Below her, on the left, the church was +just discernible, and on the right, the broad chalk uplands leaned to the +south, and were waving with green barley and wheat. Underneath her lay +the cottage garden, with its row of beehives in the north-east corner, +sheltered from the cold winds by the thick hedge. It had evidently been +raining a little, for the drops hung on the currant bushes, but the +clouds had been driven by the south-westerly wind into the eastern sky, +where they lay in a long, low, grey band. Not a sound was to be heard, +save every now and then the crow of a cock or the short cry of a +just-awakened thrush. High up on the zenith, the approach of the sun to +the horizon was proclaimed by the most delicate tints of rose-colour, but +the cloud-bank above him was dark and untouched, although the blue which +was over it, was every moment becoming paler. Clara watched; she was +moved even to tears by the beauty of the scene, but she was stirred by +something more than beauty, just as he who was in the Spirit and beheld a +throne and One sitting thereon, saw something more than loveliness, +although He was radiant with the colour of jasper and there was a rainbow +round about Him like an emerald to look upon. In a few moments the +highest top of the cloud-rampart was kindled, and the whole wavy outline +became a fringe of flame. In a few moments more the fire just at one +point became blinding, and in another second the sun emerged, the first +arrowy shaft passed into her chamber, the first shadow was cast, and it +was day. She put her hands to her face; the tears fell faster, but she +wiped them away and her great purpose was fixed. She crept back into +bed, her agitation ceased, a strange and almost supernatural peace +overshadowed her and she fell asleep not to wake till the sound of the +scythe had ceased in the meadow just beyond the rick-yard that came up to +one side of the cottage, and the mowers were at their breakfast. + +Neither Mrs Caffyn nor Clara thought of seeing the Letherhead party on +Saturday. They could not arrive before the afternoon, and it was +considered hardly worth while to walk from Great Oakhurst to Letherhead +merely for the sake of an hour or two. In the morning Mrs Caffyn was so +busy with her old friends that she rather tired herself, and in the +evening Clara went for a stroll. She did not know the country, but she +wandered on until she came to a lane which led down to the river. At the +bottom of the lane she found herself at a narrow, steep, stone bridge. +She had not been there more than three or four minutes before she +descried two persons coming down the lane from Letherhead. When they +were about a couple of hundred yards from her they turned into the meadow +over the stile, and struck the river-bank some distance below the point +where she was. It was impossible to mistake them; they were Madge and +Baruch. They sauntered leisurely; presently Baruch knelt down over the +water, apparently to gather something which he gave to Madge. They then +crossed another stile and were lost behind the tall hedge which stopped +further view of the footpath in that direction. + +‘The message then was authentic,’ she said to herself. ‘I thought I +could not have misunderstood it.’ + +On Sunday morning Clara wished to stay at home. She pleaded that she +preferred rest, but Mrs Caffyn vowed there should be no Norbury Park if +Clara did not go, and the kind creature managed to persuade a pig-dealer +to drive them over to Letherhead for a small sum, notwithstanding it was +Sunday. The whole party then set out; the baby was drawn in a borrowed +carriage which also took the provisions, and they were fairly out of the +town before the Letherhead bells had ceased ringing for church. It was +one of the sweetest of Sundays, sunny, but masses of white clouds now and +then broke the heat. The park was reached early in the forenoon, and it +was agreed that dinner should be served under one of the huge beech trees +at the lower end, as the hill was a little too steep for the +baby-carriage in the hot sun. + +‘This is very beautiful,’ said Marshall, when dinner was over, ‘but it is +not what we came to see. We ought to move upwards to the Druid’s grove.’ + +‘Yes, you be off, the whole lot of you,’ said Mrs Caffyn. ‘I know every +tree there, and I ain’t going there this afternoon. Somebody must stay +here to look after the baby; you can’t wheel her, you’ll have to carry +her, and you won’t enjoy yourselves much more for moiling along with her +up that hill.’ + +‘I will stay with you,’ said Clara. + +Everybody protested, but Clara was firm. She was tired, and the sun had +given her a headache. Madge pleaded that it was she who ought to remain +behind, but at last gave way for her sister looked really fatigued. + +‘There’s a dear child,’ said Clara, when Madge consented to go. ‘I shall +lie on the grass and perhaps go to sleep.’ + +‘It is a pity,’ said Baruch to Madge as they went away, ‘that we are +separated; we must come again.’ + +‘Yes, I am sorry, but perhaps it is better she should be where she is; +she is not particularly strong, and is obliged to be very careful.’ + +In due time they all came to the famous yews, and sat down on one of the +seats overlooking that wonderful gate in the chalk downs through which +the Mole passes northwards. + +‘We must go,’ said Marshall, ‘a little bit further and see the oak.’ + +‘Not another step,’ said his wife. ‘You can go it you like.’ + +‘Content; nothing could be pleasanter than to sit here,’ and he pulled +out his pipe; ‘but really, Miss Madge, to leave Norbury without paying a +visit to the oak is a pity.’ + +He did not offer, however, to accompany her. + +‘It is the most extraordinary tree in these parts,’ said Baruch; ‘of +incalculable age and with branches spreading into a tent big enough to +cover a regiment. Marshall is quite right.’ + +‘Where is it?’ + +‘Not above a couple of hundred yards further; just round the corner.’ + +Madge rose and looked. + +‘No; it is not visible here; it stands a little way back. If you come a +little further you will catch a glimpse of it.’ + +She followed him and presently the oak came in view. They climbed up the +bank and went nearer to it. The whole vale was underneath them and part +of the weald with the Sussex downs blue in the distance. Baruch was not +much given to raptures over scenery, but the indifference of Nature to +the world’s turmoil always appealed to him. + +‘You are not now discontented because you cannot serve under Mazzini?’ + +‘Not now.’ + +There was nothing in her reply on the face of it of any particular +consequence to Baruch. She might simply have intended that the beauty of +the fair landscape extinguished her restlessness, or that she saw her own +unfitness, but neither of these interpretations presented itself to him. + +‘I have sometimes thought,’ continued Baruch, slowly, ‘that the love of +any two persons in this world may fulfil an eternal purpose which is as +necessary to the Universe as a great revolution.’ + +Madge’s eyes moved round from the hills and they met Baruch’s. No +syllable was uttered, but swiftest messages passed, question and answer. +There was no hesitation on his part now, no doubt, the woman and the +moment had come. The last question was put, the final answer was given; +he took her hand in his and came closer to her. + +‘Stop!’ she whispered, ‘do you know my history?’ + +He did not reply, but fell upon her neck. This was the goal to which +both had been journeying all these years, although with much weary +mistaking of roads; this was what from the beginning was designed for +both! Happy Madge! happy Baruch! There are some so closely akin that +the meaning of each may be said to lie in the other, who do not approach +till it is too late. They travel towards one another, but are waylaid +and detained, and just as they are within greeting, one of them drops and +dies. + +They left the tree and went back to the Marshalls, and then down the hill +to Mrs Caffyn and Clara. Clara was much better for her rest, and early +in the evening the whole party returned to Letherhead, Clara and Mrs +Caffyn going on to Great Oakhurst. Madge kept close to her sister till +they separated, and the two men walked together. On Whitmonday morning +the Letherhead people came over to Great Oakhurst. They had to go back +to London in the afternoon, but Mrs Caffyn and Clara were to stay till +Tuesday, as they stood a better chance of securing places by the coach on +that day. Mrs Caffyn had as much to show them as if the village had been +the Tower of London. The wonder of wonders, however, was a big house, +where she was well known, and its hot-houses. Madge wanted to speak to +Clara, but it was difficult to find a private opportunity. When they +were in the garden, however, she managed to take Clara unobserved down +one of the twisted paths, under pretence of admiring an ancient mulberry +tree. + +‘Clara,’ she said, ‘I want a word with you. Baruch Cohen loves me.’ + +‘Do you love him?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Without a shadow of a doubt?’ + +‘Without a shadow of a doubt.’ + +Clara put her arm round her sister, kissed her tenderly and said,— + +‘Then I am perfectly happy.’ + +‘Did you suspect it?’ + +‘I knew it.’ + +Mrs Caffyn called them; it was time to be moving, and soon afterwards +those who had to go to London that afternoon left for Letherhead. Clara +stood at the gate for a long time watching them along the straight, white +road. They came to the top of the hill; she could just discern them +against the sky; they passed over the ridge and she went indoors. In the +evening a friend called to see Mrs Caffyn, and Clara went to the stone +bridge which she had visited on Saturday. The water on the upper side of +the bridge was dammed up and fell over the little sluice gates under the +arches into a clear and deep basin about forty or fifty feet in diameter. +The river, for some reason of its own, had bitten into the western bank, +and had scooped out a great piece of it into an island. The main current +went round the island with a shallow, swift ripple, instead of going +through the pool, as it might have done, for there was a clear channel +for it. The centre and the region under the island were deep and still, +but at the farther end, where the river in passing called to the pool, it +broke into waves as it answered the appeal, and added its own +contribution to the stream, which went away down to the mill and onwards +to the big Thames. On the island were aspens and alders. The floods had +loosened the roots of the largest tree, and it hung over heavily in the +direction in which it had yielded to the rush of the torrent, but it +still held its grip, and the sap had not forsaken a single branch. Every +one was as dense with foliage as if there had been no struggle for life, +and the leaves sang their sweet song, just perceptible for a moment every +now and then in the variations of the louder music below them. It is +curious that the sound of a weir is never uniform, but is perpetually +changing in the ear even of a person who stands close by it. One of the +arches of the bridge was dry, and Clara went down into it, stood at the +edge and watched that wonderful sight—the plunge of a smooth, pure stream +into the great cup which it has hollowed out for itself. Down it went, +with a dancing, foamy fringe playing round it just where it met the +surface; a dozen yards away it rose again, bubbling and exultant. + +She came up from the arch and went home as the sun was setting. She +found Mrs Caffyn alone. + +‘I have news to tell you,’ she said. ‘Baruch Cohen is in love with my +sister, and she is in love with him.’ + +‘The Lord, Miss Clara! I thought sometimes that perhaps it might be you; +but there, it’s better, maybe, as it is, for—’ + +‘For what?’ + +‘Why, my dear, because somebody’s sure to turn up who’ll make you happy, +but there aren’t many men like Baruch. You see what I mean, don’t you? +He’s always a-reading books, and, therefore, he don’t think so much of +what some people would make a fuss about. Not as anything of that kind +would ever stop me, if I were a man and saw such a woman as Miss Madge. +He’s really as good a creature as ever was born, and with that child she +might have found it hard to get along, and now it will be cared for, and +so will she be to the end of their lives.’ + +The evening after their return to Great Ormond Street, Mazzini was +surprised by a visit from Clara alone. + +‘When I last saw you,’ she said, ‘you told us that you had been helped by +women. I offer myself.’ + +‘But, my dear madam, you hardly know what the qualifications are. To +begin with, there must be a knowledge of three foreign languages, French, +German and Italian, and the capacity and will to endure great privation, +suffering and, perhaps, death.’ + +‘I was educated abroad, I can speak German and French. I do not know +much Italian, but when I reach Italy I will soon learn.’ + +‘Pardon me for asking you what may appear a rude question. Is it a +personal disappointment which sends you to me, or love for the cause? It +is not uncommon to find that young women, when earthly love is +impossible, attempt to satisfy their cravings with a love for that which +is impersonal.’ + +‘Does it make any difference, so far as their constancy is concerned?’ + +‘I cannot say that it does. The devotion of many of the martyrs of the +Catholic church was repulsion from the world as much as attraction to +heaven. You must understand that I am not prompted by curiosity. If you +are to be my friend, it is necessary that I should know you thoroughly.’ + +‘My motive is perfectly pure.’ + +They had some further talk and parted. After a few more interviews, +Clara and another English lady started for Italy. Madge had letters from +her sister at intervals for eighteen months, the last being from Venice. +Then they ceased, and shortly afterwards Mazzini told Baruch that his +sister-in-law was dead. + +All efforts to obtain more information from Mazzini were in vain, but one +day when her name was mentioned, he said to Madge,— + +‘The theologians represent the Crucifixion as the most sublime fact in +the world’s history. It was sublime, but let us reverence also the +Eternal Christ who is for ever being crucified for our salvation.’ + +‘Father,’ said a younger Clara to Baruch some ten years later as she sat +on his knee, ‘I had an Aunt Clara once, hadn’t I?’ + +‘Yes, my child.’ + +‘Didn’t she go to Italy and die there?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Why did she go?’ + +‘Because she wanted to free the poor people of Italy who were slaves.’ + + * * * * * + +THE END + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + _Colston & Company_, _Ltd._, _Printers_, _Edinburgh_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARA HOPGOOD*** + + +******* This file should be named 5986-0.txt or 5986-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/9/8/5986 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Clara Hopgood + + +Author: Mark Rutherford + + + +Release Date: July 15, 2014 [eBook #5986] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARA HOPGOOD*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1907 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1><span class="smcap">Clara Hopgood</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +MARK RUTHERFORD</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">EDITED BY +HIS FRIEND</span><br /> +REUBEN SHAPCOTT</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>THIRD IMPRESSION</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><b>LONDON</b><br /> +<b>T. FISHER UNWIN</b><br /> +<b>ADELPHI TERRACE</b></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>March</i> 1896</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second Impression</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>June</i> 1896</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third Impression</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>July</i> 1907</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">About</span> ten miles north-east of +Eastthorpe lies the town of Fenmarket, very like Eastthorpe +generally; and as we are already familiar with Eastthorpe, a +particular description of Fenmarket is unnecessary. There +is, however, one marked difference between them. +Eastthorpe, it will be remembered, is on the border between the +low uplands and the Fens, and has one side open to soft, swelling +hills. Fenmarket is entirely in the Fens, and all the roads +that lead out of it are alike level, monotonous, straight, and +flanked by deep and stagnant ditches. The river, also, here +is broader and slower; more reluctant than it is even at +Eastthorpe to hasten its journey to the inevitable sea. +During the greater part of the year the visitor to Fenmarket +would perhaps find it dull and depressing, and at times, under a +grey, wintry sky, almost unendurable; but nevertheless, for days +and weeks it has a charm possessed by few other landscapes in +England, provided only that behind the eye which looks there is +something to which a landscape of that peculiar character +answers. There is, for example, the wide, dome-like expanse +of the sky, there is the distance, there is the freedom and there +are the stars on a clear night. The orderly, geometrical +march of the constellations from the extreme eastern horizon +across the meridian and down to the west has a solemn majesty, +which is only partially discernible when their course is +interrupted by broken country.</p> +<p>On a dark afternoon in November 1844, two young women, Clara +and Madge Hopgood, were playing chess in the back parlour of +their mother’s house at Fenmarket, just before tea. +Clara, the elder, was about five-and-twenty, fair, with rather +light hair worn flat at the side of her face, after the fashion +of that time. Her features were tolerably regular. It +is true they were somewhat marred by an uneven nasal outline, but +this was redeemed by the curved lips of a mouth which was small +and rather compressed, and by a definite, symmetrical and +graceful figure. Her eyes were grey, with a curious +peculiarity in them. Ordinarily they were steady, strong +eyes, excellent and renowned optical instruments. Over and +over again she had detected, along the stretch of the Eastthorpe +road, approaching visitors, and had named them when her +companions could see nothing but specks. Occasionally, +however, these steady, strong, grey eyes utterly changed. +They were the same eyes, the same colour, but they ceased to be +mere optical instruments and became instruments of expression, +transmissive of radiance to such a degree that the light which +was reflected from them seemed insufficient to account for +it. It was also curious that this change, though it must +have been accompanied by some emotion, was just as often not +attended by any other sign of it. Clara was, in fact, +little given to any display of feeling.</p> +<p>Madge, four years younger than her sister, was of a different +type altogether, and one more easily comprehended. She had +very heavy dark hair, and she had blue eyes, a combination which +fascinated Fenmarket. Fenmarket admired Madge more than it +was admired by her in return, and she kept herself very much to +herself, notwithstanding what it considered to be its +temptations. If she went shopping she nearly always went +with her sister; she stood aloof from all the small gaieties of +the town; walked swiftly through its streets, and repelled, +frigidly and decisively, all offers, and they were not a few, +which had been made to her by the sons of the Fenmarket +tradesfolk. Fenmarket pronounced her +‘stuck-up,’ and having thus labelled her, considered +it had exhausted her. The very important question, Whether +there was anything which naturally stuck up? Fenmarket +never asked. It was a great relief to that provincial +little town in 1844, in this and in other cases, to find a word +which released it from further mental effort and put out of sight +any troublesome, straggling, indefinable qualities which it would +otherwise have been forced to examine and name. Madge was +certainly stuck-up, but the projection above those around her was +not artificial. Both she and her sister found the ways of +Fenmarket were not to their taste. The reason lay partly in +their nature and partly in their history.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood was the widow of the late manager in the Fenmarket +branch of the bank of Rumbold, Martin & Rumbold, and when her +husband died she had of course to leave the Bank Buildings. +As her income was somewhat straitened, she was obliged to take a +small house, and she was now living next door to the ‘Crown +and Sceptre,’ the principal inn in the town. There +was then no fringe of villas to Fenmarket for retired quality; +the private houses and shops were all mixed together, and Mrs +Hopgood’s cottage was squeezed in between the +ironmonger’s and the inn. It was very much lower than +either of its big neighbours, but it had a brass knocker and a +bell, and distinctly asserted and maintained a kind of +aristocratic superiority.</p> +<p>Mr Hopgood was not a Fenmarket man. He came straight +from London to be manager. He was in the bank of the London +agents of Rumbold, Martin & Rumbold, and had been strongly +recommended by the city firm as just the person to take charge of +a branch which needed thorough reorganisation. He +succeeded, and nobody in Fenmarket was more respected. He +lived, however, a life apart from his neighbours, excepting so +far as business was concerned. He went to church once on +Sunday because the bank expected him to go, but only once, and +had nothing to do with any of its dependent institutions. +He was a great botanist, very fond of walking, and in the +evening, when Fenmarket generally gathered itself into groups for +gossip, either in the street or in back parlours, or in the +‘Crown and Sceptre,’ Mr Hopgood, tall, lean and +stately, might be seen wandering along the solitary roads +searching for flowers, which, in that part of the world, were +rather scarce. He was also a great reader of the best +books, English, German and French, and held high doctrine, very +high for those days, on the training of girls, maintaining that +they need, even more than boys, exact discipline and +knowledge. Boys, he thought, find health in an occupation; +but an uncultivated, unmarried girl dwells with her own untutored +thoughts, which often breed disease. His two daughters, +therefore, received an education much above that which was usual +amongst people in their position, and each of them—an +unheard of wonder in Fenmarket—had spent some time in a +school in Weimar. Mr Hopgood was also peculiar in his way +of dealing with his children. He talked to them and made +them talk to him, and whatever they read was translated into +speech; thought, in his house, was vocal.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood, too, had been the intimate friend of her husband, +and was the intimate friend of her daughters. She was now +nearly sixty, but still erect and graceful, and everybody could +see that the picture of a beautiful girl of one-and-twenty, which +hung opposite the fireplace, had once been her portrait. +She had been brought up, as thoroughly as a woman could be +brought up, in those days, to be a governess. The war +prevented her education abroad, but her father, who was a +clergyman, not too rich, engaged a French emigrant lady to live +in his house to teach her French and other accomplishments. +She consequently spoke French perfectly, and she could also read +and speak Spanish fairly well, for the French lady had spent some +years in Spain. Mr Hopgood had never been particularly in +earnest about religion, but his wife was a believer, neither High +Church nor Low Church, but inclined towards a kind of quietism +not uncommon in the Church of England, even during its bad time, +a reaction against the formalism which generally prevailed. +When she married, Mrs Hopgood did not altogether follow her +husband. She never separated herself from her faith, and +never would have confessed that she had separated herself from +her church. But although she knew that his creed externally +was not hers, her own was not sharply cut, and she persuaded +herself that, in substance, his and her belief were +identical. As she grew older her relationship to the Unseen +became more and more intimate, but she was less and less inclined +to criticise her husband’s freedom, or to impose on the +children a rule which they would certainly have observed, but +only for her sake. Every now and then she felt a little +lonely; when, for example, she read one or two books which were +particularly her own; when she thought of her dead father and +mother, and when she prayed her solitary prayer. Mr Hopgood +took great pains never to disturb that sacred moment. +Indeed, he never for an instant permitted a finger to be laid +upon what she considered precious. He loved her because she +had the strength to be what she was when he first knew her and +she had so fascinated him. He would have been disappointed +if the mistress of his youth had become some other person, +although the change, in a sense, might have been development and +progress. He did really love her piety, too, for its own +sake. It mixed something with her behaviour to him and to +the children which charmed him, and he did not know from what +other existing source anything comparable to it could be +supplied. Mrs Hopgood seldom went to church. The +church, to be sure, was horribly dead, but she did not give that +as a reason. She had, she said, an infirmity, a strange +restlessness which prevented her from sitting still for an +hour. She often pleaded this excuse, and her husband and +daughters never, by word or smile, gave her the least reason to +suppose that they did not believe her.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Both</span> Clara and Madge went first to +an English day-school, and Clara went straight from this school +to Germany, but Madge’s course was a little +different. She was not very well, and it was decided that +she should have at least a twelvemonth in a boarding-school at +Brighton before going abroad. It had been very highly +recommended, but the head-mistress was Low Church and +aggressive. Mr Hopgood, far away from the High and Low +Church controversy, came to the conclusion that, in Madge’s +case, the theology would have no effect on her. It was +quite impossible, moreover, to find a school which would be just +what he could wish it to be. Madge, accordingly, was sent +to Brighton, and was introduced into a new world. She was +just beginning to ask herself <i>why</i> certain things were +right and other things were wrong, and the Brighton answer was +that the former were directed by revelation and the latter +forbidden, and that the ‘body’ was an affliction to +the soul, a means of ‘probation,’ our principal duty +being to ‘war’ against it.</p> +<p>Madge’s bedroom companion was a Miss Selina Fish, +daughter of Barnabas Fish, Esquire, of Clapham, and merchant of +the City of London. Miss Fish was not traitorous at heart, +but when she found out that Madge had not been christened, she +was so overcome that she was obliged to tell her mother. +Miss Fish was really unhappy, and one cold night, when Madge +crept into her neighbour’s bed, contrary to law, but in +accordance with custom when the weather was very bitter, poor +Miss Fish shrank from her, half-believing that something dreadful +might happen if she should by any chance touch unbaptised, naked +flesh. Mrs Fish told her daughter that perhaps Miss Hopgood +might be a Dissenter, and that although Dissenters were to be +pitied, and even to be condemned, many of them were undoubtedly +among the redeemed, as for example, that man of God, Dr +Doddridge, whose <i>Family Expositor</i> was read systematically +at home, as Selina knew. Then there were Matthew Henry, +whose commentary her father preferred to any other, and the +venerable saint, the Reverend William Jay of Bath, whom she was +proud to call her friend. Miss Fish, therefore, made +further inquiries gently and delicately, but she found to her +horror that Madge had neither been sprinkled nor immersed! +Perhaps she was a Jewess or a heathen! This was a happy +thought, for then she might be converted. Selina knew what +interest her mother took in missions to heathens and Jews; and if +Madge, by the humble instrumentality of a child, could be brought +to the foot of the Cross, what would her mother and father +say? What would they not say? Fancy taking Madge to +Clapham in a nice white dress—it should be white, thought +Selina—and presenting her as a saved lamb!</p> +<p>The very next night she began,—</p> +<p>‘I suppose your father is a foreigner?’</p> +<p>‘No, he is an Englishman.’</p> +<p>‘But if he is an Englishman you must have been baptised, +or sprinkled, or immersed, and your father and mother must belong +to church or chapel. I know there are thousands of wicked +people who belong to neither, but they are drunkards and liars +and robbers, and even they have their children +christened.’</p> +<p>‘Well, he is an Englishman,’ said Madge, +smiling.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps,’ said Selina, timidly, ‘he may +be—he may be—Jewish. Mamma and papa pray for +the Jews every morning. They are not like other +unbelievers.’</p> +<p>‘No, he is certainly not a Jew.’</p> +<p>‘What is he, then?’</p> +<p>‘He is my papa and a very honest, good man.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, my dear Madge! honesty is a broken reed. I +have heard mamma say that she is more hopeful of thieves than +honest people who think they are saved by works, for the thief +who was crucified went to heaven, and if he had been only an +honest man he never would have found the Saviour and would have +gone to hell. Your father must be something.’</p> +<p>‘I can only tell you again that he is honest and +good.’</p> +<p>Selina was confounded. She had heard of those people who +were <i>nothing</i>, and had always considered them as so +dreadful that she could not bear to think of them. The +efforts of her father and mother did not extend to them; they +were beyond the reach of the preacher—mere vessels of +wrath. If Madge had confessed herself Roman Catholic, or +idolator, Selina knew how to begin. She would have pointed +out to the Catholic how unscriptural it was to suppose that +anybody could forgive sins excepting God, and she would at once +have been able to bring the idolator to his knees by exposing the +absurdity of worshipping bits of wood and stone; but with a +person who was nothing she could not tell what to do. She +was puzzled to understand what right Madge had to her name. +Who had any authority to say she was to be called Madge +Hopgood? She determined at last to pray to God and again +ask her mother’s help.</p> +<p>She did pray earnestly that very night, and had not finished +until long after Madge had said her Lord’s Prayer. +This was always said night and morning, both by Madge and +Clara. They had been taught it by their mother. It +was, by the way, one of poor Selina’s troubles that Madge +said nothing but the Lord’s Prayer when she lay down and +when she rose; of course, the Lord’s Prayer was the +best—how could it be otherwise, seeing that our Lord used +it?—but those who supplemented it with no petitions of +their own were set down as formalists, and it was always +suspected that they had not received the true enlightenment from +above. Selina cried to God till the counterpane was wet +with her tears, but it was the answer from her mother which came +first, telling her that however praiseworthy her intentions might +be, argument with such a <i>dangerous</i> infidel as Madge would +be most perilous, and she was to desist from it at once. +Mrs Fish had by that post written to Miss Pratt, the +schoolmistress, and Selina no doubt would not be exposed to +further temptation. Mrs Fish’s letter to Miss Pratt +was very strong, and did not mince matters. She informed +Miss Pratt that a wolf was in her fold, and that if the creature +were not promptly expelled, Selina must be removed into +safety. Miss Pratt was astonished, and instantly, as her +custom was, sought the advice of her sister, Miss Hannah Pratt, +who had charge of the wardrobes and household matters +generally. Miss Hannah Pratt was never in the best of +tempers, and just now was a little worse than usual. It was +one of the rules of the school that no tradesmen’s +daughters should be admitted, but it was very difficult to draw +the line, and when drawn, the Misses Pratt were obliged to admit +it was rather ridiculous. There was much debate over an +application by an auctioneer. He was clearly not a +tradesman, but he sold chairs, tables and pigs, and, as Miss +Hannah said, used vulgar language in recommending them. +However, his wife had money; they lived in a pleasant house in +Lewes, and the line went outside him. But when a druggist, +with a shop in Bond Street, proposed his daughter, Miss Hannah +took a firm stand. What is the use of a principle, she +inquired severely, if we do not adhere to it? On the other +hand, the druggist’s daughter was the eldest of six, who +might all come when they were old enough to leave home, and Miss +Pratt thought there was a real difference between a druggist and, +say, a bootmaker.</p> +<p>‘Bootmaker!’ said Miss Hannah with great +scorn. ‘I am surprised that you venture to hint the +remotest possibility of such a contingency.’</p> +<p>At last it was settled that the line should also be drawn +outside the druggist. Miss Hannah, however, had her +revenge. A tanner in Bermondsey with a house in Bedford +Square, had sent two of his children to Miss Pratt’s +seminary. Their mother found out that they had struck up a +friendship with a young person whose father compounded +prescriptions for her, and when she next visited Brighton she +called on Miss Pratt, reminded her that it was understood that +her pupils would ‘all be taken from a superior class in +society,’ and gently hinted that she could not allow +Bedford Square to be contaminated by Bond Street. Miss +Pratt was most apologetic, enlarged upon the druggist’s +respectability, and more particularly upon his well-known piety +and upon his generous contributions to the cause of +religion. This, indeed, was what decided her to make an +exception in his favour, and the piety also of his daughter was +‘most exemplary.’ However, the tanner’s +lady, although a shining light in the church herself, was not +satisfied that a retail saint could produce a proper companion +for her own offspring, and went away leaving Miss Pratt very +uncomfortable.</p> +<p>‘I warned you,’ said Miss Hannah; ‘I told +you what would happen, and as to Mr Hopgood, I suspected him from +the first. Besides, he is only a banker’s +clerk.’</p> +<p>‘Well, what is to be done?’</p> +<p>‘Put your foot down at once.’ Miss Hannah +suited the action to the word, and put down, with emphasis, on +the hearthrug a very large, plate-shaped foot cased in a black +felt shoe.</p> +<p>‘But I cannot dismiss them. Don’t you think +it will be better, first of all, to talk to Miss Hopgood? +Perhaps we could do her some good.’</p> +<p>‘Good! Now, do you think we can do any good to an +atheist? Besides, we have to consider our reputation. +Whatever good we might do, it would be believed that the +infection remained.’</p> +<p>‘We have no excuse for dismissing the other.’</p> +<p>‘Excuse! none is needed, nor would any be +justifiable. Excuses are immoral. Say at +once—of course politely and with regret—that the +school is established on a certain basis. It will be an +advantage to us if it is known why these girls do not +remain. I will dictate the letter, if you like.’</p> +<p>Miss Hannah Pratt had not received the education which had +been given to her younger sister, and therefore, was nominally +subordinate, but really she was chief. She considered it +especially her duty not only to look after the children’s +clothes, the servants and the accounts, but to maintain +<i>tone</i> everywhere in the establishment, and to stiffen her +sister when necessary, and preserve in proper sharpness her +orthodoxy, both in theology and morals.</p> +<p>Accordingly, both the girls left, and both knew the reason for +leaving. The druggist’s faith was sorely tried. +If Miss Pratt’s had been a worldly seminary he would have +thought nothing of such behaviour, but he did not expect it from +one of the faithful. The next Sunday morning after he +received the news, he stayed at home out of his turn to make up +any medicines which might be urgently required, and sent his +assistant to church.</p> +<p>As to Madge, she enjoyed her expulsion as a great joke, and +her Brighton experiences were the cause of much laughter. +She had learned a good deal while she was away from home, not +precisely what it was intended she should learn, and she came +back with a strong, insurgent tendency, which was even more +noticeable when she returned from Germany. Neither of the +sisters lived at the school in Weimar, but at the house of a lady +who had been recommended to Mrs Hopgood, and by this lady they +were introduced to the great German classics. She herself +was an enthusiast for Goethe, whom she well remembered in his old +age, and Clara and Madge, each of them in turn, learned to know +the poet as they would never have known him in England. +Even the town taught them much about him, for in many ways it was +expressive of him and seemed as if it had shaped itself for +him. It was a delightful time for them. They enjoyed +the society and constant mental stimulus; they loved the +beautiful park; not a separate enclosure walled round like an +English park, but suffering the streets to end in it, and in +summer time there were excursions into the Thüringer Wald, +generally to some point memorable in history, or for some +literary association. The drawback was the contrast, when +they went home, with Fenmarket, with its dulness and its complete +isolation from the intellectual world. At Weimar, in the +evening, they could see Egmont or hear Fidelio, or talk with +friends about the last utterance upon the Leben Jesu; but the +Fenmarket Egmont was a travelling wax-work show, its Fidelio +psalm tunes, or at best some of Bishop’s glees, performed +by a few of the tradesfolk, who had never had an hour’s +instruction in music; and for theological criticism there were +the parish church and Ram Lane Chapel. They did their best; +they read their old favourites and subscribed for a German as +well as an English literary weekly newspaper, but at times they +were almost beaten. Madge more than Clara was liable to +depression.</p> +<p>No Fenmarket maiden, other than the Hopgoods, was supposed to +have any connection whatever, or to have any capacity for any +connection with anything outside the world in which ‘young +ladies’ dwelt, and if a Fenmarket girl read a book, a rare +occurrence, for there were no circulating libraries there in +those days, she never permitted herself to say anything more than +that it was ‘nice,’ or it was ‘not nice,’ +or she ‘liked it’ or did ‘not like it;’ +and if she had ventured to say more, Fenmarket would have thought +her odd, not to say a little improper. The Hopgood young +women were almost entirely isolated, for the tradesfolk felt +themselves uncomfortable and inferior in every way in their +presence, and they were ineligible for rectory and brewery +society, not only because their father was merely a manager, but +because of their strange ways. Mrs Tubbs, the +brewer’s wife, thought they were due to Germany. From +what she knew of Germany she considered it most injudicious, and +even morally wrong, to send girls there. She once made the +acquaintance of a German lady at an hotel at Tunbridge Wells, and +was quite shocked. She could see quite plainly that the +standard of female delicacy must be much lower in that country +than in England. Mr Tubbs was sure Mrs Hopgood must have +been French, and said to his daughters, mysteriously, ‘you +never can tell who Frenchwomen are.’</p> +<p>‘But, papa,’ said Miss Tubbs, ‘you know Mrs +Hopgood’s maiden name; we found that out. It was +Molyneux.’</p> +<p>‘Of course, my dear, of course; but if she was a +Frenchwoman resident in England she would prefer to assume an +English name, that is to say if she wished to be +married.’</p> +<p>Occasionally the Miss Hopgoods were encountered, and they +confounded Fenmarket sorely. On one memorable occasion +there was a party at the Rectory: it was the annual party into +which were swept all the unclassifiable odds-and-ends which could +not be put into the two gatherings which included the aristocracy +and the democracy of the place. Miss Clara Hopgood amazed +everybody by ‘beginning talk,’ by asking Mrs +Greatorex, her hostess, who had been far away to Sidmouth for a +holiday, whether she had been to the place where Coleridge was +born, and when the parson’s wife said she had not, and that +she could not be expected to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace +of an infidel, Miss Hopgood expressed her surprise, and declared +she would walk twenty miles any day to see Ottery St Mary. +Still worse, when somebody observed that an Anti-Corn-Law +lecturer was coming to Fenmarket, and the parson’s daughter +cried ‘How horrid!’ Miss Hopgood talked again, +and actually told the parson that, so far as she had read upon +the subject—fancy her reading about the +Corn-Laws!—the argument was all one way, and that after +Colonel Thompson nothing new could really be urged.</p> +<p>‘What is so—’ she was about to say +‘objectionable,’ but she recollected her official +position and that she was bound to be politic—‘so odd +and unusual,’ observed Mrs Greatorex to Mrs Tubbs +afterwards, ‘is not that Miss Hopgood should have radical +views. Mrs Barker, I know, is a radical like her husband, +but then she never puts herself forward, nor makes +speeches. I never saw anything quite like it, except once +in London at a dinner-party. Lady Montgomery then went on +in much the same way, but she was a baronet’s wife; the +baronet was in Parliament; she received a good deal and was +obliged to entertain her guests.’</p> +<p>Poor Clara! she was really very unobtrusive and very modest, +but there had been constant sympathy between her and her father, +not the dumb sympathy as between man and dog, but that which can +manifest itself in human fashion.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Clara</span> and her father were both +chess-players, and at the time at which our history begins, Clara +had been teaching Madge the game for about six months.</p> +<p>‘Check!’ said Clara.</p> +<p>‘Check! after about a dozen moves. It is of no use +to go on; you always beat me. I should not mind that if I +were any better now than when I started. It is not in +me.’</p> +<p>‘The reason is that you do not look two moves +ahead. You never say to yourself, “Suppose I move +there, what is she likely to do, and what can I do +afterwards?”’</p> +<p>‘That is just what is impossible to me. I cannot +hold myself down; the moment I go beyond the next move my +thoughts fly away, and I am in a muddle, and my head turns +round. I was not born for it. I can do what is under +my nose well enough, but nothing more.’</p> +<p>‘The planning and the forecasting are the soul of the +game. I should like to be a general, and play against +armies and calculate the consequences of +manœuvres.’</p> +<p>‘It would kill me. I should prefer the +fighting. Besides, calculation is useless, for when I think +that you will be sure to move such and such a piece, you +generally do not.’</p> +<p>‘Then what makes the difference between the good and the +bad player?’</p> +<p>‘It is a gift, an instinct, I suppose.’</p> +<p>‘Which is as much as to say that you give it up. +You are very fond of that word instinct; I wish you would not use +it.’</p> +<p>‘I have heard you use it, and say you instinctively like +this person or that.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly; I do not deny that sometimes I am drawn to a +person or repelled from him before I can say why; but I always +force myself to discover afterwards the cause of my attraction or +repulsion, and I believe it is a duty to do so. If we +neglect it we are little better than the brutes, and may grossly +deceive ourselves.’</p> +<p>At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Madge jumped +up, nearly over-setting the board, and rushed into the front +room. It was the four-horse coach from London, which, once +a day, passed through Fenmarket on its road to Lincoln. It +was not the direct route from London to Lincoln, but the +<i>Defiance</i> went this way to accommodate Fenmarket and other +small towns. It slackened speed in order to change horses +at the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ and as Madge stood at the +window, a gentleman on the box-seat looked at her intently as he +passed. In another minute he had descended, and was +welcomed by the landlord, who stood on the pavement. Clara +meanwhile had taken up a book, but before she had read a page, +her sister skipped into the parlour again, humming a tune.</p> +<p>‘Let me see—check, you said, but it is not +mate.’</p> +<p>She put her elbows on the table, rested her head between her +hands, and appeared to contemplate the game profoundly.</p> +<p>‘Now, then, what do you say to that?’</p> +<p>It was really a very lucky move, and Clara, whose thoughts +perhaps were elsewhere, was presently most unaccountably +defeated. Madge was triumphant.</p> +<p>‘Where are all your deep-laid schemes? Baffled by +a poor creature who can hardly put two and two +together.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps your schemes were better than mine.’</p> +<p>‘You know they were not. I saw the queen ought to +take that bishop, and never bothered myself as to what would +follow. Have you not lost your faith in schemes?’</p> +<p>‘You are very much mistaken if you suppose that, because +of one failure, or of twenty failures, I would give up a +principle.’</p> +<p>‘Clara, you are a strange creature. Don’t +let us talk any more about chess.’</p> +<p>Madge swept all the pieces with her hand into the box, shut +it, closed the board, and put her feet on the fender.</p> +<p>‘You never believe in impulses or in doing a thing just +because here and now it appears to be the proper thing to +do. Suppose anybody were to make love to you—oh! how +I wish somebody would, you dear girl, for nobody deserves it +more—’ Madge put her head caressingly on +Clara’s shoulder and then raised it again. +‘Suppose, I say, anybody were to make love to you, would +you hold off for six months and consider, and consider, and ask +yourself whether he had such and such virtues, and whether he +could make you happy? Would not that stifle love +altogether? Would you not rather obey your first impression +and, if you felt you loved him, would you not say +“Yes”?’</p> +<p>‘Time is not everything. A man who is prompt and +is therefore thought to be hasty by sluggish creatures who are +never half awake, may in five minutes spend more time in +consideration than his critics will spend in as many weeks. +I have never had the chance, and am not likely to have it. +I can only say that if it were to come to me, I should try to use +the whole strength of my soul. Precisely because the +question would be so important, would it be necessary to employ +every faculty I have in order to decide it. I do not +believe in oracles which are supposed to prove their divinity by +giving no reasons for their commands.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, well, <i>I</i> believe in Shakespeare. His +lovers fall in love at first sight.’</p> +<p>‘No doubt they do, but to justify yourself you have to +suppose that you are a Juliet and your friend a Romeo. They +may, for aught I know, be examples in my favour. However, I +have to lay down a rule for my own poor, limited self, and, to +speak the truth, I am afraid that great men often do harm by +imposing on us that which is serviceable to themselves only; or, +to put it perhaps more correctly, we mistake the real nature of +their processes, just as a person who is unskilled in arithmetic +would mistake the processes of anybody who is very quick at it, +and would be led away by them. Shakespeare is much to me, +but the more he is to me, the more careful I ought to be to +discover what is the true law of my own nature, more important to +me after all than Shakespeare’s.’</p> +<p>‘Exactly. I know what the law of mine is. If +a man were to present himself to me, I should rely on that +instinct you so much despise, and I am certain that the +balancing, see-saw method would be fatal. It would disclose +a host of reasons against any conclusion, and I should never come +to any.’</p> +<p>Clara smiled. Although this impetuosity was foreign to +her, she loved it for the good which accompanied it.</p> +<p>‘You do not mean to say you would accept or reject him +at once?’</p> +<p>‘No, certainly not. What I mean is that in a few +days, perhaps in a shorter time, something within me would tell +me whether we were suited to one another, although we might not +have talked upon half-a-dozen subjects.’</p> +<p>‘I think the risk tremendous.’</p> +<p>‘But there is just as much risk the other way. You +would examine your friend, catalogue him, sum up his beliefs, +note his behaviour under various experimental trials, and +miserably fail, after all your scientific investigation, to +ascertain just the one important point whether you loved him and +could live with him. Your reason was not meant for that +kind of work. If a woman trusts in such matters to the +faculty by which, when she wishes to settle whether she is to +take this house or that, she puts the advantages of the larger +back kitchen on one side and the bigger front kitchen on the +other, I pity her.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood at this moment came downstairs and asked when in +the name of fortune they meant to have the tea ready.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Frank Palmer</span>, the gentleman whom we +saw descend from the coach, was the eldest son of a wholesale and +manufacturing chemist in London. He was now about +five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a partner, he +had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for his +firm. The elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, +something more than a Whig in politics, and an enthusiastic +member of the Broad Church party, which was then becoming a power +in the country. He was well-to-do, living in a fine old +red-brick house at Stoke Newington, with half-a-dozen acres of +ground round it, and, if Frank had been born thirty years later, +he would probably have gone to Cambridge or Oxford. In +those days, however, it was not the custom to send boys to the +Universities unless they were intended for the law, divinity or +idleness, and Frank’s training, which was begun at St +Paul’s school, was completed there. He lived at home, +going to school in the morning and returning in the +evening. He was surrounded by every influence which was +pure and noble. Mr Maurice and Mr Sterling were his +father’s guests, and hence it may be inferred that there +was an altar in the house, and that the sacred flame burnt +thereon. Mr Palmer almost worshipped Mr Maurice, and his +admiration was not blind, for Maurice connected the Bible with +what was rational in his friend. ‘What! still +believable: no need then to pitch it overboard: here after all is +the Eternal Word!’ It can be imagined how those who +dared not close their eyes to the light, and yet clung to that +book which had been so much to their forefathers and themselves, +rejoiced when they were able to declare that it belonged to them +more than to those who misjudged them and could deny that they +were heretics. The boy’s education was entirely +classical and athletic, and as he was quick at learning and loved +his games, he took a high position amongst his +school-fellows. He was not particularly reflective, but he +was generous and courageous, perfectly straightforward, a fair +specimen of thousands of English public-school boys. As he +grew up, he somewhat disappointed his father by a lack of any +real interest in the subjects in which his father was +interested. He accepted willingly, and even +enthusiastically, the household conclusions on religion and +politics, but they were not properly his, for he accepted them +merely as conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often +even a little annoying to hear him express some free opinion on +religious questions in a way which showed that it was not a +growth but something picked up. Mr Palmer, senior, +sometimes recoiled into intolerance and orthodoxy, and bewildered +his son who, to use one of his own phrases, ‘hardly knew +where his father was.’ Partly the reaction was due to +the oscillation which accompanies serious and independent +thought, but mainly it was caused by Mr Palmer’s discontent +with Frank’s appropriation of a sentiment or doctrine of +which he was not the lawful owner. Frank, however, was so +hearty, so affectionate, and so cheerful, that it was impossible +not to love him dearly.</p> +<p>In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for +the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ was his headquarters, and +Madge was well enough aware that she had been noticed. He +had inquired casually who it was who lived next door, and when +the waiter told him the name, and that Mr Hopgood was formerly +the bank manager, Frank remembered that he had often heard his +father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in a bank in London, as one +of his best friends. He did not fail to ask his father +about this friend, and to obtain an introduction to the +widow. He had now brought it to Fenmarket, and within half +an hour after he had alighted, he had presented it.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and +the welcome to Frank was naturally very warm. It was +delightful to connect earlier and happier days with the present, +and she was proud in the possession of a relationship which had +lasted so long. Clara and Madge, too, were both excited and +pleased. To say nothing of Frank’s appearance, of his +unsnobbish, deferential behaviour which showed that he understood +who they were and that the little house made no difference to +him, the girls and the mother could not resist a side glance at +Fenmarket and the indulgence of a secret satisfaction that it +would soon hear that the son of Mr Palmer, so well known in every +town round about, was on intimate terms with them.</p> +<p>Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of +sympathetic people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she +was often astonished at the witty things and even the wise things +she said in such company, although, when she was alone, so few +things wise or witty occurred to her. Like all persons who, +in conversation, do not so much express the results of previous +conviction obtained in silence as the inspiration of the moment, +Madge dazzled everybody by a brilliancy which would have been +impossible if she had communicated that which had been slowly +acquired, but what she left with those who listened to her, did +not always seem, on reflection, to be so much as it appeared to +be while she was talking. Still she was very charming, and +it must be confessed that sometimes her spontaneity was truer +than the limitations of speech more carefully weighed.</p> +<p>‘What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? +How I wish you would come to London!’</p> +<p>‘I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached +to it; I have very few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the +most convincing reason, I could not afford it. Rent and +living are cheaper here than in town.’</p> +<p>‘Would you not like to live in London, Miss +Hopgood?’</p> +<p>Clara hesitated for a few seconds.</p> +<p>‘I am not sure—certainly not by myself. I +was in London once for six months as a governess in a very +pleasant family, where I saw much society; but I was glad to +return to Fenmarket.’</p> +<p>‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted +Madge; ‘it is so romantic, so mountainous, so interesting +in every way.’</p> +<p>‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may +appear. In London nobody really cares for anybody, at +least, not in the sense in which I should use the words. +Men and women in London stand for certain talents, and are valued +often very highly for them, but they are valued merely as +representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, I +should not be satisfied with admiration or respect because of +it. No matter what admiration, or respect, or even +enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were told that my services +had been immense and that life had been changed through my +instrumentality, I should feel the lack of quiet, personal +affection, and that, I believe, is not common in London. If +I were famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of the world +for the love of a brother—if I had one—or a sister, +who perhaps had never heard what it was which had made me +renowned.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the +love of <i>such</i> a sister. But, Mr Palmer, I like +London. I like the people, just the people, although I do +not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing about +me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the +country. I never have a thought of my own down here. +How should I? But in London there is plenty of talk about +all kinds of things, and I find I too have something in me. +It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything particular to +anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want +too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are +rather a burden. They involve profound and eternal +attachment on my part; and I have always to be at my best; such +watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer a dressing-gown +and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the +trouble of laboriously striving to discover what you really +mean.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking +too much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were +present, and she therefore interrupted them.</p> +<p>‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country—which do +you prefer?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, +perhaps, and town in the winter.’</p> +<p>This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; +that is to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there +was one valid reason why he liked being in London in the +winter.</p> +<p>‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose +you inherit his taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in +the country.’</p> +<p>‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St +Paul?” I was at Birmingham when it was first +performed in this country. Oh! it <i>is</i> lovely,’ +and he began humming ‘<i>Be thou faithful unto +death</i>.’</p> +<p>Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good +music was to be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in +great request amongst his father’s friends at evening +entertainments. He could also play the piano, so far as to +be able to accompany himself thereon. He sang to himself +when he was travelling, and often murmured favourite airs when +people around him were talking. He had lessons from an old +Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who was not very +proud of his pupil. ‘He is a talent,’ said the +Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a +party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere +‘talents’ Frank failed in his songs to give them just +what is of most value—just that which separates an artistic +performance from the vast region of well-meaning, respectable, +but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack in +him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of +himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that +something which it serves to express would always lie behind it; +but this was not the case with him, although he was so attractive +and delightful in many ways. There could be no doubt that +his love for Beethoven was genuine, but that which was in Frank +Palmer was not that of which the sonatas and symphonies of the +master are the voice. He went into raptures over the slow +movement in the <i>C minor</i> Symphony, but no <i>C minor</i> +slow movement was discernible in his character.</p> +<p>‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” +which can be put to music?’ said Madge. ‘Fancy +a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a +duet!’</p> +<p>‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ +said her mother.</p> +<p>‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that +some of the settings by your divinity, Handel, are absurd. +“<i>For as in Adam all die</i>” may be true enough, +and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always tempted to +laugh when I hear it.’</p> +<p>Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘<i>Be not +afraid</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs +Hopgood.</p> +<p>‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the +little piano and sang the song through.</p> +<p>‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said +Madge, ‘so far as the coincidence of sense and melody is +concerned, but I do not care much for oratorios. Better +subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, and the main reason +for selecting the Bible is that what is called religious music +may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, is +never quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical +subject, and, besides, you cannot have proper love songs in an +oratorio, and in them music is at its best.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s +extravagance, but she was, nevertheless, a little +uncomfortable.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the +piano, and he struck the first two bars of +‘<i>Adelaide</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go +on,’ but Frank could not quite finish it.</p> +<p>She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, +lay and listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration +in Mr Palmer’s voice not perceptible during his vision of +the crown of life and of fidelity to death.</p> +<p>‘Are you going to stay over Sunday?’ inquired Mrs +Hopgood.</p> +<p>‘I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday +evening. My father likes me to be at home on that +day.’</p> +<p>‘Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your +father?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes, a great friend.’</p> +<p>‘He is not High Church nor Low Church?’</p> +<p>‘No, not exactly.’</p> +<p>‘What is he, then? What does he +believe?’</p> +<p>‘Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that +anybody will be burnt in a brimstone lake for ever.’</p> +<p>‘That is what he does not believe,’ interposed +Clara.</p> +<p>‘He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and +Romans who acted up to the light that was within them were not +sent to hell. I think that is glorious, don’t +you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but that also is something he does not +believe. What is there in him which is positive? What +has he distinctly won from the unknown?’</p> +<p>‘Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is +wonderful. I do admire him so much; I am sure you would +like him.’</p> +<p>‘If you do not go home on Saturday,’ said Mrs +Hopgood, ‘we shall be pleased if you will have dinner with +us on Sunday; we generally go for a walk in the +afternoon.’</p> +<p>Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the +sofa. Her hair was disarranged, and she pushed its thick +folds backward. It grew rather low down on her forehead and +stood up a little on her temples, a mystery of shadow and dark +recess. If it had been electrical with the force of a +strong battery and had touched him, he could not have been more +completely paralysed, and his half-erect resolution to go back on +Saturday was instantly laid flat.</p> +<p>‘Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,’ looking at Madge and +meeting her eyes, ‘I think it very likely I shall stay, and +if I do I will most certainly accept your kind +invitation.’</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Sunday</span> morning came, and Frank, +being in the country, considered himself absolved from the duty +of going to church, and went for a long stroll. At +half-past one he presented himself at Mrs Hopgood’s +house.</p> +<p>‘I have had a letter from London,’ said Clara to +Frank, ‘telling me a most extraordinary story, and I should +like to know what you think of it. A man, who was left a +widower, had an only child, a lovely daughter of about fourteen +years old, in whose existence his own was completely wrapped +up. She was subject at times to curious fits of +self-absorption or absence of mind, and while she was under their +influence she resembled a somnambulist rather than a sane human +being awake. Her father would not take her to a physician, +for he dreaded lest he should be advised to send her away from +home, and he also feared the effect which any recognition of her +disorder might have upon her. He believed that in obscure +and half-mental diseases like hers, it was prudent to suppress +all notice of them, and that if he behaved to her as if she were +perfectly well, she would stand a chance of recovery. +Moreover, the child was visibly improving, and it was probable +that the disturbance in her health would be speedily +outgrown. One hot day he went out shopping with her, and he +observed that she was tired and strange in her manner, although +she was not ill, or, at least, not so ill as he had often before +seen her. The few purchases they had to make at the +draper’s were completed, and they went out into the +street. He took her hand-bag, and, in doing so, it opened +and he saw to his horror a white silk pocket-handkerchief +crumpled up in it, which he instantly recognised as one which had +been shown him five minutes before, but he had not bought. +The next moment a hand was on his shoulder. It was that of +an assistant, who requested that they would both return for a few +minutes. As they walked the half dozen steps back, the +father’s resolution was taken. “I am +sixty,” he thought to himself, “and she is +fourteen.” They went into the counting-house and he +confessed that he had taken the handkerchief, but that it was +taken by mistake and that he was about to restore it when he was +arrested. The poor girl was now herself again, but her mind +was an entire blank as to what she had done, and she could not +doubt her father’s statement, for it was a man’s +handkerchief and the bag was in his hands. The draper was +inexorable, and as he had suffered much from petty thefts of +late, had determined to make an example of the first offender +whom he could catch. The father was accordingly prosecuted, +convicted and sentenced to imprisonment. When his term had +expired, his daughter, who, I am glad to say, never for an +instant lost her faith in him, went away with him to a distant +part of the country, where they lived under an assumed +name. About ten years afterwards he died and kept his +secret to the last; but he had seen the complete recovery and +happy marriage of his child. It was remarkable that it +never occurred to her that she might have been guilty, but her +father’s confession, as already stated, was apparently so +sincere that she could do nothing but believe him. You will +wonder how the facts were discovered. After his death a +sealed paper disclosing them was found, with the inscription, +“<i>Not to be opened during my daughter’s life</i>, +<i>and if she should have children or a husband who may survive +her</i>, <i>it is to be burnt</i>.” She had no +children, and when she died as an old woman, her husband also +being dead, the seal was broken.’</p> +<p>‘Probably,’ said Madge, ‘nobody except his +daughter believed he was not a thief. For her sake he +endured the imputation of common larceny, and was content to +leave the world with only a remote chance that he would ever be +justified.’</p> +<p>‘I wonder,’ said Frank, ‘that he did not +admit that it was his daughter who had taken the handkerchief, +and excuse her on the ground of her ailment.’</p> +<p>‘He could not do that,’ replied Madge. +‘The object of his life was to make as little of the +ailment as possible. What would have been the effect on her +if she had been made aware of its fearful consequences? +Furthermore, would he have been believed? And +then—awful thought, the child might have suspected him of +attempting to shield himself at her expense! Do you think +you could be capable of such sacrifice, Mr Palmer?’</p> +<p>Frank hesitated. ‘It would—’</p> +<p>‘The question is not fair, Madge,’ said Mrs +Hopgood, interrupting him. ‘You are asking for a +decision when all the materials to make up a decision are not +present. It is wrong to question ourselves in cold blood as +to what we should do in a great strait; for the emergency brings +the insight and the power necessary to deal with it. I +often fear lest, if such-and-such a trial were to befall me, I +should miserably fail. So I should, furnished as I now am, +but not as I should be under stress of the trial.’</p> +<p>‘What is the use,’ said Clara, ‘of +speculating whether we can, or cannot, do this or that? It +<i>is</i> now an interesting subject for discussion whether the +lie was a sin.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ said Madge, ‘a thousand times +no.’</p> +<p>‘Brief and decisive. Well, Mr Palmer, what do you +say?’</p> +<p>‘That is rather an awkward question. A lie is a +lie.’</p> +<p>‘But not,’ broke in Madge, vehemently, ‘to +save anybody whom you love. Is a contemptible little +two-foot measuring-tape to be applied to such an action as +that?’</p> +<p>‘The consequences of such a philosophy, though, my +dear,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘are rather serious. +The moment you dispense with a fixed standard, you cannot refuse +permission to other people to dispense with it also.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, yes, I know all about that, but I am not going to +give up my instinct for the sake of a rule. Do what you +feel to be right, and let the rule go hang. Somebody, +cleverer in logic than we are, will come along afterwards and +find a higher rule which we have obeyed, and will formulate it +concisely.’</p> +<p>‘As for my poor self,’ said Clara, ‘I do not +profess to know, without the rule, what is right and what is +not. We are always trying to transcend the rule by some +special pleading, and often in virtue of some fancied +superiority. Generally speaking, the attempt is +fatal.’</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘your dogmatic +decision may have been interesting, but it prevented the +expression of Mr Palmer’s opinion.’</p> +<p>Madge bent forward and politely inclined her head to the +embarrassed Frank.</p> +<p>‘I do not know what to say. I have never thought +much about such matters. Is not what they call casuistry a +science among Roman Catholics? If I were in a difficulty +and could not tell right from wrong, I should turn Catholic, and +come to you as my priest, Mrs Hopgood.’</p> +<p>‘Then you would do, not what you thought right yourself, +but what I thought right. The worth of the right to you is +that it is your right, and that you arrive at it in your own +way. Besides, you might not have time to consult +anybody. Were you never compelled to settle promptly a case +of this kind?’</p> +<p>‘I remember once at school, when the mathematical master +was out of the class-room, a boy named Carpenter ran up to the +blackboard and wrote “Carrots” on it. That was +the master’s nickname, for he was red-haired. +Scarcely was the word finished, when Carpenter heard him coming +along the passage. There was just time partially to rub out +some of the big letters, but CAR remained, and Carpenter was +standing at the board when “Carrots” came in. +He was an excitable man, and he knew very well what the boys +called him.</p> +<p>‘“What have you been writing on the board, +sir?”</p> +<p>‘“Carpenter, sir.”</p> +<p>‘The master examined the board. The upper half of +the second R was plainly perceptible, but it might possibly have +been a P. He turned round, looked steadily at Carpenter for +a moment, and then looked at us. Carpenter was no +favourite, but not a soul spoke.</p> +<p>‘“Go to your place, sir.”</p> +<p>‘Carpenter went to his place, the letters were erased +and the lesson was resumed. I was greatly perplexed; I had +acquiesced in a cowardly falsehood. Carrots was a great +friend of mine, and I could not bear to feel that he was +humbugged, so when we were outside I went up to Carpenter and +told him he was an infernal sneak, and we had a desperate fight, +and I licked him, and blacked both his eyes. I did not know +what else to do.’</p> +<p>The company laughed.</p> +<p>‘We cannot,’ said Madge, ‘all of us come to +terms after this fashion with our consciences, but we have had +enough of these discussions on morality. Let us go +out.’</p> +<p>They went out, and, as some relief from the straight road, +they turned into a field as they came home, and walked along a +footpath which crossed the broad, deep ditches by planks. +They were within about fifty yards of the last and broadest +ditch, more a dyke than a ditch, when Frank, turning round, saw +an ox which they had not noticed, galloping after them.</p> +<p>‘Go on, go on,’ he cried, ‘make for the +plank.’</p> +<p>He discerned in an instant that unless the course of the +animal could be checked it would overtake them before the bridge +could be reached. The women fled, but Frank remained. +He was in the habit of carrying a heavy walking-stick, the end of +which he had hollowed out in his schooldays and had filled up +with lead. Just as the ox came upon him, it laid its head +to the ground, and Frank, springing aside, dealt it a tremendous, +two-handed blow on the forehead with his knobbed weapon. +The creature was dazed, it stopped and staggered, and in another +instant Frank was across the bridge in safety. There was a +little hysterical sobbing, but it was soon over.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Mr Palmer,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘what +presence of mind and what courage! We should have been +killed without you.’</p> +<p>‘The feat is not original, Mrs Hopgood. I saw it +done by a tough little farmer last summer on a bull that was +really mad. There was no ditch for him though, poor fellow, +and he had to jump a hedge.’</p> +<p>‘You did not find it difficult,’ said Madge, +‘to settle your problem when it came to you in the shape of +a wild ox.’</p> +<p>‘Because there was nothing to settle,’ said Frank, +laughing; ‘there was only one thing to be done.’</p> +<p>‘So you believed, or rather, so you saw,’ said +Clara. ‘I should have seen half-a-dozen things at +once—that is to say, nothing.’</p> +<p>‘And I,’ said Madge, ‘should have settled it +the wrong way: I am sure I should, even if I had been a +man. I should have bolted.’</p> +<p>Frank stayed to tea, and the evening was musical. He +left about ten, but just as the door had shut he remembered he +had forgotten his stick. He gave a gentle rap and Madge +appeared. She gave him his stick.</p> +<p>‘Good-bye again. Thanks for my life.’</p> +<p>Frank cursed himself that he could not find the proper +word. He knew there was something which might be said and +ought to be said, but he could not say it. Madge held out +her hand to him, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, and +then, astonished at his boldness, he instantly retreated. +He went to the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ and was soon in +bed, but not to sleep. Strange, that the moment we lie down +in the dark, images, which were half obscured, should become so +intensely luminous! Madge hovered before Frank with almost +tangible distinctness, and he felt his fingers moving in her +heavy, voluptuous tresses. Her picture at last became +almost painful to him and shamed him, so that he turned over from +side to side to avoid it. He had never been thrown into the +society of women of his own age, for he had no sister, and a fire +was kindled within him which burnt with a heat all the greater +because his life had been so pure. At last he fell asleep +and did not wake till late in the morning. He had just time +to eat his breakfast, pay one more business visit in the town, +and catch the coach due at eleven o’clock from Lincoln to +London. As the horses were being changed, he walked as near +as he dared venture to the windows of the cottage next door, but +he could see nobody. When the coach, however, began to +move, he turned round and looked behind him, and a hand was waved +to him. He took off his hat, and in five minutes he was +clear of the town. It was in sight a long way, but when, at +last, it disappeared, a cloud of wretchedness swept over him as +the vapour sweeps up from the sea. What was she doing? +talking to other people, existing for others, laughing with +others! There were miles between himself and +Fenmarket. Life! what was life? A few moments of +living and long, dreary gaps between. All this, however, is +a vain attempt to delineate what was shapeless. It was an +intolerable, unvanquishable oppression. This was Love; this +was the blessing which the god with the ruddy wings had bestowed +on him. It was a relief to him when the coach rattled +through Islington, and in a few minutes had landed him at the +‘Angel.’</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was to be a grand +entertainment in the assembly room of the ‘Crown and +Sceptre’ in aid of the County Hospital. Mrs Martin, +widow of one of the late partners in the bank, lived in a large +house near Fenmarket, and still had an interest in the +business. She was distinctly above anybody who lived in the +town, and she knew how to show her superiority by venturing +sometimes to do what her urban neighbours could not possibly +do. She had been known to carry through the street a quart +bottle of horse physic although it was wrapped up in nothing but +brown paper. On her way she met the brewer’s wife, +who was more aggrieved than she was when Mrs Martin’s +carriage swept past her in the dusty, narrow lane which led to +the Hall. Mrs Martin could also afford to recognise in a +measure the claims of education and talent. A gentleman +came from London to lecture in the town, and showed astonished +Fenmarket an orrery and a magic lantern with dissolving views of +the Holy Land. The exhibition had been provided in order to +extinguish a debt incurred in repairing the church, but the +rector’s wife, and the brewer’s wife, after +consultation, decided that they must leave the lecturer to return +to his inn. Mrs Martin, however, invited him to +supper. Of course she knew Mr Hopgood well, and knew that +he was no ordinary man. She knew also something of Mrs +Hopgood and the daughters, and that they were no ordinary +women. She had been heard to say that they were ladies, and +that Mr Hopgood was a gentleman; and she kept up a distant kind +of intimacy with them, always nodded to them whenever she met +them, and every now and then sent them grapes and flowers. +She had observed once or twice to Mrs Tubbs that Mr Hopgood was a +remarkable person, who was quite scientific and therefore did not +associate with the rest of the Fenmarket folk; and Mrs Tubbs was +much annoyed, particularly by a slight emphasis which she thought +she detected in the ‘therefore,’ for Mr Tubbs had +told her that one of the smaller London brewers, who had only +about fifty public-houses, had refused to meet at dinner a +learned French chemist who had written books. Mrs Martin +could not make friends with the Hopgoods, nor enter the +cottage. It would have been a transgression of that +infinitely fine and tortuous line whose inexplicable convolutions +mark off what is forbidden to a society lady. Clearly, +however, the Hopgoods could be requested to co-operate at the +‘Crown and Sceptre;’ in fact, it would be impolitic +not to put some of the townsfolk on the list of patrons. So +it came about that Mrs Hopgood was included, and that she was +made responsible for the provision of one song and one +recitation. For the song it was settled that Frank Palmer +should be asked, as he would be in Fenmarket. Usually he +came but once every half year, but he had not been able, so he +said, to finish all his work the last time. The recitation +Madge undertook.</p> +<p>The evening arrived, the room was crowded and a dozen private +carriages stood in the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ +courtyard. Frank called for the Hopgoods. Mrs Hopgood +and Clara sat with presentation tickets in the second row, +amongst the fashionable folk; Frank and Madge were upon the +platform. Frank was loudly applauded in ‘<i>Il Mio +Tesoro</i>,’ but the loudest applause of the evening was +reserved for Madge, who declaimed Byron’s +‘<i>Destruction of Sennacherib</i>’ with much +energy. She certainly looked very charming in her red gown, +harmonising with her black hair. The men in the audience +were vociferous for something more, and would not be contented +until she again came forward. The truth is, that the wily +young woman had prepared herself beforehand for possibilities, +but she artfully concealed her preparation. Looking on the +ground and hesitating, she suddenly raised her head as if she had +just remembered something, and then repeated Sir Henry +Wotton’s ‘<i>Happy Life</i>.’ She was +again greeted with cheers, subdued so as to be in accordance with +the character of the poem, but none the less sincere, and in the +midst of them she gracefully bowed and retired. Mrs Martin +complimented her warmly at the end of the performance, and +inwardly debated whether Madge could be asked to enliven one of +the parties at the Hall, and how it could, at the same time, be +made clear to the guests that she and her mother, who must come +with her, were not even acquaintances, properly so called, but +were patronised as persons of merit living in the town which the +Hall protected. Mrs Martin was obliged to be very +careful. She certainly was on the list at the Lord +Lieutenant’s, but she was in the outer ring, and she was +not asked to those small and select little dinners which were +given to Sir Egerton, the Dean of Peterborough, Lord Francis, and +his brother, the county member. She decided, however, that +she could make perfectly plain the conditions upon which the +Hopgoods would be present, and the next day she sent Madge a +little note asking her if she would ‘assist in some +festivities’ at the Hall in about two months’ time, +which were to be given in celebration of the twenty-first +birthday of Mrs Martin’s third son. The scene from +the ‘<i>Tempest</i>,’ where Ferdinand and Miranda are +discovered playing chess, was suggested, and it was proposed that +Madge should be Miranda, and Mr Palmer Ferdinand. Mrs +Martin concluded with a hope that Mrs Hopgood and her eldest +daughter would ‘witness the performance.’</p> +<p>Frank joyously consented, for amateur theatricals had always +attracted him, and in a few short weeks he was again at +Fenmarket. He was obliged to be there for three or four +days before the entertainment, in order to attend the rehearsals, +which Mrs Martin had put under the control of a professional +gentleman from London, and Madge and he were consequently +compelled to make frequent journeys to the Hall.</p> +<p>At last the eventful night arrived, and a carriage was hired +next door to take the party. They drove up to the grand +entrance and were met by a footman, who directed Madge and Frank +to their dressing-rooms, and escorted Mrs Hopgood and Clara to +their places in the theatre. They had gone early in order +to accommodate Frank and Madge, and they found themselves +alone. They were surprised that there was nobody to welcome +them, and a little more surprised when they found that the places +allotted to them were rather in the rear. Presently two or +three fiddlers were seen, who began to tune their +instruments. Then some Fenmarket folk and some of the +well-to-do tenants on the estate made their appearance, and took +seats on either side of Mrs Hopgood and Clara. Quite at the +back were the servants. At five minutes to eight the band +struck up the overture to ‘<i>Zampa</i>,’ and in the +midst of it in sailed Mrs Martin and a score or two of +fashionably-dressed people, male and female. The curtain +ascended and Prospero’s cell was seen. Alonso and his +companions were properly grouped, and Prospero began,—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘Behold, +Sir King,<br /> +The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The audience applauded him vigorously when he came to the end +of his speech, but there was an instantaneous cry of +‘hush!’ when Prospero disclosed the lovers. It +was really very pretty. Miranda wore a loose, simple, white +robe, and her wonderful hair was partly twisted into a knot, and +partly strayed down to her waist. The dialogue between the +two was spoken with much dramatic feeling, and when Ferdinand +came to the lines—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘Sir, +she is mortal,<br /> +But by immortal Providence she’s mine,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs +Hopgood, cried out ‘hear, hear!’ but was instantly +suppressed.</p> +<p>He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed +his knees, grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, +and whispered, with his hand to his mouth,—</p> +<p>‘And a precious lucky chap he is.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the +gods to drop a blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was +renewed, and Boston again cried ‘hear, hear!’ without +fear of check, she did not applaud, for something told her that +behind this stage show a drama was being played of far more +serious importance.</p> +<p>The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the +performers. It rose, and they presented themselves, Alonso +still holding the hands of the happy pair. The cheering now +was vociferous, more particularly when a wreath was flung at the +feet of the young princess, and Ferdinand, stooping, placed it on +her head.</p> +<p>Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music +and the audience were treated to ‘something light,’ +and roared with laughter at a pretty chambermaid at an inn who +captivated and bamboozled a young booby who was staying there, +pitched him overboard; ‘wondered what he meant;’ sang +an audacious song recounting her many exploits, and finished with +a <i>pas-seul</i>.</p> +<p>The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous +supper, and the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past +two in the morning. On their way back, Clara broke out +against the juxtaposition of Shakespeare and such vulgarity.</p> +<p>‘Much better,’ she said, ‘to have left the +Shakespeare out altogether. The lesson of the sequence is +that each is good in its way, a perfectly hateful doctrine to +me.</p> +<p>Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, +especially Frank, who had taken a glass of wine beyond his +customary very temperate allowance.</p> +<p>‘But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; +we must not be too severe upon her.’</p> +<p>There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; +the word ‘tastes,’ for example, as if the difference +between Miranda and the chambermaid were a matter of +‘taste.’ She was annoyed too with Frank’s +easy, cheery tones for she felt deeply what she said, and his +mitigation and smiling latitudinarianism were more exasperating +than direct opposition.</p> +<p>‘I am sure,’ continued Frank, ‘that if we +were to take the votes of the audience, Miranda would be the +queen of the evening;’ and he put the crown which he had +brought away with him on her head again.</p> +<p>Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door +of their house. It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping +out of the carriage in a hurry, threw a shawl over her head, +forgetting the wreath. It fell into the gutter and was +splashed with mud. Frank picked it up, wiped it as well as +he could with his pocket-handkerchief, took it into the parlour +and laid it on a chair.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next morning it still rained, a +cold rain from the north-east, a very disagreeable type of +weather on the Fenmarket flats. Madge was not awake until +late, and when she caught sight of the grey sky and saw her +finery tumbled on the floor—no further use for it in any +shape save as rags—and the dirty crown, which she had +brought upstairs, lying on the heap, the leaves already fading, +she felt depressed and miserable. The breakfast was dull, +and for the most part all three were silent. Mrs Hopgood +and Clara went away to begin their housework, leaving Madge +alone.</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ cried Mrs Hopgood, ‘what am I to do +with this thing? It is of no use to preserve it; it is dead +and covered with dirt.’</p> +<p>‘Throw it down here.’</p> +<p>She took it and rammed it into the fire. At that moment +she saw Frank pass. He was evidently about to knock, but +she ran to the door and opened it.</p> +<p>‘I did not wish to keep you waiting in the +wet.’</p> +<p>‘I am just off but I could not help calling to see how +you are. What! burning your laurels, the testimony to your +triumph?’</p> +<p>‘Triumph! rather transitory; finishes in smoke,’ +and she pushed two or three of the unburnt leaves amongst the +ashes and covered them over. He stooped down, picked up a +leaf, smoothed it between his fingers, and then raised his +eyes. They met hers at that instant, as she lifted them and +looked in his face. They were near one another, and his +hands strayed towards hers till they touched. She did not +withdraw; he clasped the hand, she not resisting; in another +moment his arms were round her, his face was on hers, and he was +swept into self-forgetfulness. Suddenly the horn of the +coach about to start awoke him, and he murmured the line from one +of his speeches of the night before—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘But by immortal Providence she’s +mine.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She released herself a trifle, held her head back as if she +desired to survey him apart from her, so that the ecstasy of +union might be renewed, and then fell on his neck.</p> +<p>The horn once more sounded, she let him out silently, and he +was off. Mrs Hopgood and Clara presently came +downstairs.</p> +<p>‘Mr Palmer came in to bid you good-bye, but he heard the +coach and was obliged to rush away.’</p> +<p>‘What a pity,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘that you +did not call us.’</p> +<p>‘I thought he would be able to stay longer.’</p> +<p>The lines which followed Frank’s quotation came into her +head,—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Sweet lord, you play me false.’<br /> + ‘No, my dearest love,<br /> + I would not for the world.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘An omen,’ she said to herself; ‘“he +would not for the world.”’</p> +<p>She was in the best of spirits all day long. When the +housework was over and they were quiet together, she +said,—</p> +<p>‘Now, my dear mother and sister, I want to know how the +performance pleased you.’</p> +<p>‘It was as good as it could be,’ replied her +mother, ‘but I cannot think why all plays should turn upon +lovemaking. I wonder whether the time will ever come when +we shall care for a play in which there is no +courtship.’</p> +<p>‘What a horrible heresy, mother,’ said Madge.</p> +<p>‘It may be so; it may be that I am growing old, but it +seems astonishing to me sometimes that the world does not grow a +little weary of endless variations on the same theme.’</p> +<p>‘Never,’ said Madge, ‘as long as it does not +weary of the thing itself, and it is not likely to do that. +Fancy a young man and a young woman stopping short and +exclaiming, “This is just what every son of Adam and +daughter of Eve has gone through before; why should we +proceed?” Besides, it is the one emotion common to +the whole world; we can all comprehend it. Once more, it +reveals character. In <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Othello</i>, for +example, what is interesting is not solely the bare love. +The natures of Hamlet and Othello are brought to light through it +as they would not have been through any other stimulus. I +am sure that no ordinary woman ever shows what she really is, +except when she is in love. Can you tell what she is from +what she calls her religion, or from her friends, or even from +her husband?’</p> +<p>‘Would it not be equally just to say women are more +alike in love than in anything else? Mind, I do not say +alike, but more alike. Is it not the passion which levels +us all?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, mother, mother! did one ever hear such dreadful +blasphemy? That the loves, for example, of two such +cultivated, exquisite creatures as Clara and myself would be +nothing different from those of the barmaids next +door?’</p> +<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I do not want to see <i>my</i> +children in love to understand what they are—to me at +least.’</p> +<p>‘Then, if you comprehend us so completely—and let +us have no more philosophy—just tell me, should I make a +good actress? Oh! to be able to sway a thousand human +beings into tears or laughter! It must be +divine.’</p> +<p>‘No, I do not think you would,’ replied Clara.</p> +<p>‘Why not, miss? <i>Your</i> opinion, mind, was not +asked. Did I not act to perfection last night?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Then why are you so decisive?’</p> +<p>‘Try a different part some day. I may be +mistaken.’</p> +<p>‘You are very oracular.’</p> +<p>She turned to the piano, played a few chords, closed the +instrument, swung herself round on the music stool, and said she +should go for a walk.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was Mr Palmer’s design to +send Frank abroad as soon as he understood the home trade. +It was thought it would be an advantage to him to learn something +of foreign manufacturing processes. Frank had gladly agreed +to go, but he was now rather in the mood for delay. Mr +Palmer conjectured a reason for it, and the conjecture was +confirmed when, after two or three more visits to Fenmarket, +perfectly causeless, so far as business was concerned, Frank +asked for the paternal sanction to his engagement with +Madge. Consent was willingly given, for Mr Palmer knew the +family well; letters passed between him and Mrs Hopgood, and it +was arranged that Frank’s visit to Germany should be +postponed till the summer. He was now frequently at +Fenmarket as Madge’s accepted suitor, and, as the spring +advanced, their evenings were mostly spent by themselves out of +doors. One afternoon they went for a long walk, and on +their return they rested by a stile. Those were the days +when Tennyson was beginning to stir the hearts of the young +people in England, and the two little green volumes had just +become a treasure in the Hopgood household. Mr Palmer, +senior, knew them well, and Frank, hearing his father speak so +enthusiastically about them, thought Madge would like them, and +had presented them to her. He had heard one or two read +aloud at home, and had looked at one or two himself, but had gone +no further. Madge, her mother, and her sister had read and +re-read them.</p> +<p>‘Oh,’ said Madge, ‘for that Vale in +Ida. Here in these fens how I long for something that is +not level! Oh, for the roar of—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The long brook falling thro’ the +clov’n ravine<br /> +In cataract after cataract to the sea.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Go on with it, Frank.’</p> +<p>‘I cannot.’</p> +<p>‘But you know <i>Œnone</i>?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say I do. I began it—’</p> +<p>‘Frank, how could you begin it and lay it down +unfinished? Besides, those lines are some of the first; you +<i>must</i> remember—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Behind the valley topmost Gargarus<br /> +Stands up and takes the morning.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘No, I do not recollect, but I will learn them; learn +them for your sake.’</p> +<p>‘I do not want you to learn them for my sake.’</p> +<p>‘But I shall.’</p> +<p>She had taken off her hat and his hand strayed to her +neck. Her head fell on his shoulder and she had forgotten +his ignorance of <i>Œnone</i>. Presently she awoke +from her delicious trance and they moved homewards in +silence. Frank was a little uneasy.</p> +<p>‘I do greatly admire Tennyson,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘What do you admire? You have hardly looked at +him.’</p> +<p>‘I saw a very good review of him. I will look that +review up, by the way, before I come down again. Mr Maurice +was talking about it.’</p> +<p>Madge had a desire to say something, but she did not know what +to say, a burden lay upon her chest. It was that weight +which presses there when we are alone with those with whom we are +not strangers, but with whom we are not completely at home, and +she actually found herself impatient and half-desirous of +solitude. This must be criminal or disease, she thought to +herself, and she forcibly recalled Frank’s virtues. +She was so far successful that when they parted and he kissed +her, she was more than usually caressing, and her ardent embrace, +at least for the moment, relieved that unpleasant sensation in +the region of the heart. When he had gone she reasoned with +herself. What a miserable counterfeit of love, she argued, +is mere intellectual sympathy, a sympathy based on books! +What did Miranda know about Ferdinand’s ‘views’ +on this or that subject? Love is something independent of +‘views.’ It is an attraction which has always +been held to be inexplicable, but whatever it may be it is not +‘views.’ She was becoming a little weary, she +thought, of what was called ‘culture.’ These +creatures whom we know through Shakespeare and Goethe are +ghostly. What have we to do with them? It is idle +work to read or even to talk fine things about them. It +ends in nothing. What we really have to go through and that +which goes through it are interesting, but not circumstances and +character impossible to us. When Frank spoke of his +business, which he understood, he was wise, and some observations +which he made the other day, on the management of his workpeople, +would have been thought original if they had been printed. +The true artist knows that his hero must be a character shaping +events and shaped by them, and not a babbler about +literature. Frank, also, was so susceptible. He liked +to hear her read to him, and her enthusiasm would soon be +his. Moreover, how gifted he was, unconsciously, with all +that makes a man admirable, with courage, with perfect +unselfishness! How handsome he was, and then his passion +for her! She had read something of passion, but she never +knew till now what the white intensity of its flame in a man +could be. She was committed, too, happily committed; it was +an engagement.</p> +<p>Thus, whenever doubt obtruded itself, she poured a self-raised +tide over it and concealed it. Alas! it could not be washed +away; it was a little sharp rock based beneath the ocean’s +depths, and when the water ran low its dark point +reappeared. She was more successful, however, than many +women would have been, for, although her interest in ideas was +deep, there was fire in her blood, and Frank’s arm around +her made the world well nigh disappear; her surrender was entire, +and if Sinai had thundered in her ears she would not have +heard. She was destitute of that power, which her sister +possessed, of surveying herself from a distance. On the +contrary, her emotion enveloped her, and the safeguard of +reflection on it was impossible to her.</p> +<p>As to Frank, no doubt ever approached him. He was +intoxicated, and beside himself. He had been brought up in +a clean household, knowing nothing of the vice by which so many +young men are overcome, and woman hitherto had been a mystery to +him. Suddenly he found himself the possessor of a beautiful +creature, whose lips it was lawful to touch and whose heartbeats +he could feel as he pressed her to his breast. It was +permitted him to be alone with her, to sit on the floor and rest +his head on her knees, and he had ventured to capture one of her +slippers and carry it off to London, where he kept it locked up +amongst his treasures. If he had been drawn over Fenmarket +sluice in a winter flood he would not have been more incapable of +resistance.</p> +<p>Every now and then Clara thought she discerned in Madge that +she was not entirely content, but the cloud-shadows swept past so +rapidly and were followed by such dazzling sunshine that she was +perplexed and hoped that her sister’s occasional moodiness +might be due to parting and absence, or the anticipation of +them. She never ventured to say anything about Frank to +Madge, for there was something in her which forbade all approach +from that side. Once when he had shown his ignorance of +what was so familiar to the Hopgoods, and Clara had expected some +sign of dissatisfaction from her sister, she appeared +ostentatiously to champion him against anticipated +criticism. Clara interpreted the warning and was silent, +but, after she had left the room with her mother in order that +the lovers might be alone, she went upstairs and wept many +tears. Ah! it is a sad experience when the nearest and +dearest suspects that we are aware of secret disapproval, knows +that it is justifiable, throws up a rampart and becomes +defensively belligerent. From that moment all confidence is +at an end. Without a word, perhaps, the love and friendship +of years disappear, and in the place of two human beings +transparent to each other, there are two who are opaque and +indifferent. Bitter, bitter! If the cause of +separation were definite disagreement upon conduct or belief, we +could pluck up courage, approach and come to an understanding, +but it is impossible to bring to speech anything which is so +close to the heart, and there is, therefore, nothing left for us +but to submit and be dumb.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was now far into June, and Madge +and Frank extended their walks and returned later. He had +come down to spend his last Sunday with the Hopgoods before +starting with his father for Germany, and on the Monday they were +to leave London.</p> +<p>Wordsworth was one of the divinities at Stoke Newington, and +just before Frank visited Fenmarket that week, he had heard the +<i>Intimations of Immortality</i> read with great fervour. +Thinking that Madge would be pleased with him if she found that +he knew something about that famous Ode, and being really smitten +with some of the passages in it, he learnt it, and just as they +were about to turn homewards one sultry evening he suddenly began +to repeat it, and declaimed it to the end with much rhetorical +power.</p> +<p>‘Bravo!’ said Madge, ‘but, of all +Wordsworth’s poems, that is the one for which I believe I +care the least.’</p> +<p>Frank’s countenance fell.</p> +<p>‘Oh, me! I thought it was just what would suit +you.’</p> +<p>‘No, not particularly. There are some noble lines +in it; for example—</p> +<blockquote><p>“And custom lie upon thee with a weight,<br +/> +Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But the very title—<i>Intimations of Immortality from +Recollections of Early Childhood</i>—is unmeaning to me, +and as for the verse which is in everybody’s +mouth—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Our birth is but a sleep and a +forgetting;”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and still worse the vision of “that immortal sea,” +and of the children who “sport upon the shore,” they +convey nothing whatever to me. I find though they are much +admired by the clergy of the better sort, and by certain +religiously-disposed people, to whom thinking is distasteful or +impossible. Because they cannot definitely believe, they +fling themselves with all the more fervour upon these cloudy +Wordsworthian phrases, and imagine they see something solid in +the coloured fog.’</p> +<p>It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to +fall, but in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary +to his usual wont, was silent. There was something +undiscovered in Madge, a region which he had not visited and +perhaps could not enter. She discerned in an instant what +she had done, and in an instant repented. He had taken so +much pains with a long piece of poetry for her sake: was not that +better than agreement in a set of propositions? Scores of +persons might think as she thought about the ode, who would not +spend a moment in doing anything to gratify her. It was +delightful also to reflect that Frank imagined she would +sympathise with anything written in that temper. She +recalled what she herself had said when somebody gave Clara a +copy in ‘Parian’ of a Greek statue, a thing coarse in +outline and vulgar. Clara was about to put it in a cupboard +in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so pathetically that the +donor had in a measure divined what her sister loved, and had +done her best, although she had made a mistake, that finally the +statue was placed on the bedroom mantelpiece. Madge’s +heart overflowed, and Frank had never attracted her so powerfully +as at that moment. She took his hand softly in hers.</p> +<p>‘Frank,’ she murmured, as she bent her head +towards him, ‘it is really a lovely poem.’</p> +<p>Suddenly there was a flash of forked lightning at some +distance, followed in a few seconds by a roll of thunder +increasing in intensity until the last reverberation seemed to +shake the ground. They took refuge in a little barn and sat +down. Madge, who was timid and excited in a thunderstorm, +closed her eyes to shield herself from the glare.</p> +<p>The tumult in the heavens lasted for nearly two hours and, +when it was over, Madge and Frank walked homewards without +speaking a word for a good part of the way.</p> +<p>‘I cannot, cannot go to-morrow,’ he suddenly +cried, as they neared the town.</p> +<p>‘You <i>shall</i> go,’ she replied calmly.</p> +<p>‘But, Madge, think of me in Germany, think what my +dreams and thoughts will be—you here—hundreds of +miles between us.’</p> +<p>She had never seen him so shaken with terror.</p> +<p>‘You <i>shall</i> go; not another word.’</p> +<p>‘I must say something—what can I say? My +God, my God, have mercy on me!’</p> +<p>‘Mercy! mercy!’ she repeated, half unconsciously, +and then rousing herself, exclaimed, ‘You shall not say it; +I will not hear; now, good-bye.’</p> +<p>They had come to the door; he went inside; she took his face +between her hands, left one kiss on his forehead, led him back to +the doorway and he heard the bolts drawn. When he recovered +himself he went to the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ and tried +to write a letter to her, but the words looked hateful, horrible +on the paper, and they were not the words he wanted. He +dared not go near the house the next morning, but as he passed it +on the coach he looked at the windows. Nobody was to be +seen, and that night he left England.</p> +<p>‘Did you hear,’ said Clara to her mother at +breakfast, ‘that the lightning struck one of the elms in +the avenue at Mrs Martin’s yesterday evening and splintered +it to the ground?’</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> a few days Madge received the +following letter:—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">‘<span +class="smcap">Frankfort</span>, O. M.,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hôtel Waidenbusch</span>.</p> +<p>‘<span class="smcap">My dearest Madge</span>,—I do +not know how to write to you. I have begun a dozen letters +but I cannot bring myself to speak of what lies before me, hiding +the whole world from me. Forgiveness! how is any +forgiveness possible? But Madge, my dearest Madge, remember +that my love is intenser than ever. What has happened has +bound you closer to me. I <i>implore</i> you to let me come +back. I will find a thousand excuses for returning, and we +will marry. We had vowed marriage to each other and why +should not our vows be fulfilled? Marriage, marriage <i>at +once</i>. You will not, you <i>cannot</i>, no, you +<i>cannot</i>, you must see you cannot refuse. My father +wishes to make this town his headquarters for ten days. +Write by return for mercy’s sake.—Your ever +devoted</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span +class="smcap">Frank</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The reply came only a day late.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">My dear +Frank</span>,—Forgiveness! Who is to be +forgiven? Not you. You believed you loved me, but I +doubted my love, and I know now that no true love for you +exists. We must part, and part forever. Whatever +wrong may have been done, marriage to avoid disgrace would be a +wrong to both of us infinitely greater. I owe you an +expiation; your release is all I can offer, and it is +insufficient. I can only plead that I was deaf and +blind. By some miracle, I cannot tell how, my ears and eyes +are opened, and I hear and see. It is not the first time in +my life that the truth has been revealed to me suddenly, +supernaturally, I may say, as if in a vision, and I know the +revelation is authentic. There must be no wavering, no +half-measures, and I absolutely forbid another letter from +you. If one arrives I must, for the sake of my own peace +and resolution, refuse to read it. You have simply to +announce to your father that the engagement is at an end, and +give no reasons.—Your faithful friend</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">Madge +Hopgood</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and +it was returned unopened.</p> +<p>For a long time Frank was almost incapable of +reflection. He dwelt on an event which might happen, but +which he dared not name; and if it should happen! Pictures +of his father, his home his father’s friends, Fenmarket, +the Hopgood household, passed before him with such wild rapidity +and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if the reins had +dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away to +madness.</p> +<p>He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the +imagination, tried to bring himself back into sanity and to +devise schemes by which, although he was prohibited from writing +to Madge, he might obtain news of her. Her injunction might +not be final. There was but one hope for him, one +possibility of extrication, one necessity—their +marriage. It <i>must</i> be. He dared not think of +what might be the consequences if they did not marry.</p> +<p>Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or +sister of the rupture, but one morning—nearly two months +had now passed—Clara did not appear at breakfast.</p> +<p>‘Clara is not here,’ said Mrs Hopgood; ‘she +was very tired last night, perhaps it is better not to disturb +her.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she +still sleeps.’</p> +<p>Madge went upstairs, opened her sister’s door +noiselessly, saw that she was not awake, and returned. When +breakfast was over she rose, and after walking up and down the +room once or twice, seated herself in the armchair by her +mother’s side. Her mother drew herself a little +nearer, and took Madge’s hand gently in her own.</p> +<p>‘Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your +mother?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? +Do you not think I ought to know something about such an event in +the life of one so close to me?’</p> +<p>‘I broke off the engagement: we were not suited to one +another.’</p> +<p>‘I thought as much; I honour you; a thousand times +better that you should separate now than find out your mistake +afterwards when it is irrevocable. Thank God, He has given +you such courage! But you must have suffered—I know +you must;’ and she tenderly kissed her daughter.</p> +<p>‘Oh, mother! mother!’ cried Madge, ‘what is +the worst—at least to—you—the worst that can +happen to a woman?’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood did not speak; something presented itself which +she refused to recognise, but she shuddered. Before she +could recover herself Madge broke out again,—</p> +<p>‘It has happened to me; mother, your daughter has +wrecked your peace for ever!’</p> +<p>‘And he has abandoned you?’</p> +<p>‘No, no; I told you it was I who left him.’</p> +<p>It was Mrs Hopgood’s custom, when any evil news was +suddenly communicated to her, to withdraw at once if possible to +her own room. She detached herself from Madge, rose, and, +without a word, went upstairs and locked her door. The +struggle was terrible. So much thought, so much care, such +an education, such noble qualities, and they had not accomplished +what ordinary ignorant Fenmarket mothers and daughters were able +to achieve! This fine life, then, was a failure, and a +perfect example of literary and artistic training had gone the +way of the common wenches whose affiliation cases figured in the +county newspaper. She was shaken and bewildered. She +was neither orthodox nor secular. She was too strong to be +afraid that what she disbelieved could be true, and yet a fatal +weakness had been disclosed in what had been set up as its +substitute. She could not treat her child as a sinner who +was to be tortured into something like madness by immitigable +punishment, but, on the other hand, she felt that this sorrow was +unlike other sorrows and that it could never be healed. For +some time she was powerless, blown this way and that way by +contradictory storms, and unable to determine herself to any +point whatever. She was not, however, new to the +tempest. She had lived and had survived when she thought +she must have gone down. She had learned the wisdom which +the passage through desperate straits can bring. At last +she prayed and in a few minutes a message was whispered to +her. She went into the breakfast-room and seated herself +again by Madge. Neither uttered a word, but Madge fell down +before her, and, with a great cry, buried her face in her +mother’s lap. She remained kneeling for some time +waiting for a rebuke, but none came. Presently she felt +smoothing hands on her head and the soft impress of lips. +So was she judged.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was settled that they should +leave Fenmarket. Their departure caused but little +surprise. They had scarcely any friends, and it was always +conjectured that people so peculiar would ultimately find their +way to London. They were particularly desirous to conceal +their movements, and therefore determined to warehouse their +furniture in town, to take furnished apartments there for three +months, and then to move elsewhere. Any letters which might +arrive at Fenmarket for them during these three months would be +sent to them at their new address; nothing probably would come +afterwards, and as nobody in Fenmarket would care to take any +trouble about them, their trace would become obliterated. +They found some rooms near Myddelton Square, Pentonville, not a +particularly cheerful place, but they wished to avoid a more +distant suburb, and Pentonville was cheap. Fortunately for +them they had no difficulty whatever in getting rid of the +Fenmarket house for the remainder of their term.</p> +<p>For a little while London diverted them after a fashion, but +the absence of household cares told upon them. They had +nothing to do but to read and to take dismal walks through +Islington and Barnsbury, and the gloom of the outlook thickened +as the days became shorter and the smoke began to darken the +air. Madge was naturally more oppressed than the others, +not only by reason of her temperament, but because she was the +author of the trouble which had befallen them. Her mother +and Clara did everything to sustain and to cheer her. They +possessed the rare virtue of continuous tenderness. The +love, which with many is an inspiration, was with them their own +selves, from which they could not be separated; a harsh word +could not therefore escape from them. It was as impossible +as that there should be any failure in the pressure with which +the rocks press towards the earth’s centre. Madge at +times was very far gone in melancholy. How different this +thing looked when it was close at hand; when she personally was +to be the victim! She had read about it in history, the +surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it had been turned +to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent a charm to +innumerable mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing like the +poetry or mythology, and threatened to ruin her own history +altogether. Nor would it be her own history solely, but +more or less that of her mother and sister.</p> +<p>Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have +been concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would +have found her Redeemer and would have been comparatively at +peace; she would have acknowledged herself convicted of infinite +sin, and hell would have been opened before her, but above the +sin and the hell she would have seen the distinct image of the +Mediator abolishing both. Popular theology makes personal +salvation of such immense importance that, in comparison +therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to others of our +misdeeds. The sense of cruel injustice to those who loved +her remained with Madge perpetually.</p> +<p>To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; +sometimes her mother and sister went with her; sometimes she +insisted on going alone. One autumn morning, she found +herself at Letherhead, the longest trip she had undertaken, for +there were scarcely any railways then. She wandered about +till she discovered a footpath which took her to a mill-pond, +which spread itself out into a little lake. It was fed by +springs which burst up through the ground. She watched at +one particular point, and saw the water boil up with such force +that it cleared a space of a dozen yards in diameter from every +weed, and formed a transparent pool just tinted with that pale +azure which is peculiar to the living fountains which break out +from the bottom of the chalk. She was fascinated for a +moment by the spectacle, and reflected upon it, but she passed +on. In about three-quarters of an hour she found herself +near a church, larger than an ordinary village church, and, as +she was tired, and the gate of the church porch was open, she +entered and sat down. The sun streamed in upon her, and +some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the +adjoining open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and +looked in her face. The quiet was complete, and the air so +still, that a yellow leaf dropping here and there from the +churchyard elms—just beginning to turn—fell +quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at heart +and despairing, she could not help being touched, and she thought +to herself how strange the world is—so transcendent both in +glory and horror; a world capable of such scenes as those before +her, and a world in which such suffering as hers could be; a +world infinite both ways. The porch gate was open because +the organist was about to practise, and in another instant she +was listening to the <i>Kyrie</i> from Beethoven’s Mass in +C. She knew it; Frank had tried to give her some notion of +it on the piano, and since she had been in London she had heard +it at St Mary’s, Moorfields. She broke down and wept, +but there was something new in her sorrow, and it seemed as if a +certain Pity overshadowed her.</p> +<p>She had barely recovered herself when she saw a woman, +apparently about fifty, coming towards her with a wicker basket +on her arm. She sat down beside Madge, put her basket on +the ground, and wiped her face with her apron.</p> +<p>‘Marnin’ miss! its rayther hot walkin’, +isn’t it? I’ve come all the way from Darkin, +and I’m goin’ to Great Oakhurst. That’s a +longish step there and back again; not that this is the nearest +way, but I don’t like climbing them hills, and then when I +get to Letherhead I shall have a lift in a cart.’</p> +<p>Madge felt bound to say something as the sunburnt face looked +kind and motherly.</p> +<p>‘I suppose you live at Great Oakhurst?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. I do: my husband, God bless him! he was a +kind of foreman at The Towers, and when he died I was left alone +and didn’t know what to be at, as both my daughters were +out and one married; so I took the general shop at Great +Oakhurst, as Longwood used to have, but it don’t pay for I +ain’t used to it, and the house is too big for me, and +there isn’t nobody proper to mind it when I goes over to +Darkin for anything.’</p> +<p>‘Are you going to leave?’</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t quite know yet, miss, but I thinks +I shall live with my daughter in London. She’s +married a cabinetmaker in Great Ormond Street: they let lodgings, +too. Maybe you know that part?’</p> +<p>‘No, I do not.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t live in London, then?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I do. I came from London this +morning.’</p> +<p>‘The Lord have mercy on us, did you though! I +suppose, then, you’re a-visitin’ here. I know +most of the folk hereabouts.’</p> +<p>‘No: I am going back this afternoon.’</p> +<p>Her interrogator was puzzled and her curiosity +stimulated. Presently she looked in Madge’s face.</p> +<p>‘Ah! my poor dear, you’ll excuse me, I don’t +mean to be forward, but I see you’ve been a-cryin’: +there’s somebody buried here.’</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>That was all she could say. The walk from Letherhead, +and the excitement had been too much for her and she +fainted. Mrs Caffyn, for that was her name, was used to +fainting fits. She was often ‘a bit faint’ +herself, and she instantly loosened Madge’s gown, brought +out some smelling-salts and also a little bottle of brandy and +water. Something suddenly struck her. She took up +Madge’s hand: there was no wedding ring on it.</p> +<p>Presently her patient recovered herself.</p> +<p>‘Look you now, my dear; you aren’t noways fit to +go back to London to-day. If you was my child you +shouldn’t do it for all the gold in the Indies, no, nor you +sha’n’t now. I shouldn’t have a wink of +sleep this night if I let you go, and if anything were to happen +to you it would be me as ’ud have to answer for +it.’</p> +<p>‘But I must go; my mother and sister will not know what +has become of me.’</p> +<p>‘You leave that to me; I tell you again as you +can’t go. I’ve been a mother myself, and I +haven’t had children for nothing. I was just +a-goin’ to send a little parcel up to my daughter by the +coach, and her husband’s a-goin’ to meet it. +She’d left something behind last week when she was with me, +and I thought I’d get a bit of fresh butter here for her +and put along with it. They make better butter in the farm +in the bottom there, than they do at Great Oakhurst. A note +inside now will get to your mother all right; you have a bit of +something to eat and drink here, and you’ll be able to walk +along of me just into Letherhead, and then you can ride to Great +Oakhurst; it’s only about two miles, and you can stay there +all night.’</p> +<p>Madge was greatly touched; she took Mrs Caffyn’s hands +in hers, pressed them both and consented. She was very +weary, and the stamp on Mrs Caffyn’s countenance was +indubitable; it was evidently no forgery, but of royal +mintage. They walked slowly to Letherhead, and there they +found the carrier’s cart, which took them to Great +Oakhurst.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs Caffyn’s</span> house was a +roomy old cottage near the church, with a bow-window in which +were displayed bottles of ‘suckers,’ and of Day & +Martin’s blacking, cotton stuffs, a bag of nuts and some +mugs, cups and saucers. Inside were salt butter, +washing-blue, drapery, treacle, starch, tea, tobacco and snuff, +cheese, matches, bacon, and a few drugs, such as black draught, +magnesia, pills, sulphur, dill-water, Dalby’s Carminative, +and steel-drops. There was also a small stock of +writing-paper, string and tin ware. A boy was behind the +counter. When Mrs Caffyn was out he always asked the +customers who desired any article, the sale of which was in any +degree an art, to call again when she returned. He went as +far as those things which were put up in packets, such as what +were called ‘grits’ for making gruel, and he was also +authorised to venture on pennyworths of liquorice and +peppermints, but the sale of half-a-dozen yards of cotton print +was as much above him as the negotiation of a treaty of peace +would be to a messenger in the Foreign Office. In fact, +nobody, excepting children, went into the shop when Mrs Caffyn +was not to be seen there, and, if she had to go to Dorking or +Letherhead on business, she always chose the middle of the day, +when the folk were busy at their homes or in the fields. +Poor woman! she was much tried. Half the people who dealt +with her were in her debt, but she could not press them for her +money. During winter-time they were discharged by the score +from their farms, but as they were not sufficiently philosophic, +or sufficiently considerate for their fellows to hang or drown +themselves, they were obliged to consume food, and to wear +clothes, for which they tried to pay by instalments during +spring, summer and autumn. Mrs Caffyn managed to make both +ends meet by the help of two or three pigs, by great economy, and +by letting some of her superfluous rooms. Great Oakhurst +was not a show place nor a Spa, but the Letherhead doctor had +once recommended her to a physician in London, who occasionally +sent her a patient who wanted nothing but rest and fresh +air. She also, during the shooting-season, was often asked +to find a bedroom for visitors to The Towers.</p> +<p>She might have done better had she been on thoroughly good +terms with the parson. She attended church on Sunday +morning with tolerable regularity. She never went inside a +dissenting chapel, and was not heretical on any definite +theological point, but the rector and she were not friends. +She had lived in Surrey ever since she was a child, but she was +not Surrey born. Both her father and mother came from the +north country, and migrated southwards when she was very +young. They were better educated than the southerners +amongst whom they came; and although their daughter had no +schooling beyond what was obtainable in a Surrey village of that +time, she was distinguished by a certain superiority which she +had inherited or acquired from her parents. She was never +subservient to the rector after the fashion of her neighbours; +she never curtsied to him, and if he passed and nodded she said +‘Marnin’, sir,’ in just the same tone as that +in which she said it to the smallest of the Great Oakhurst +farmers. Her church-going was an official duty incumbent +upon her as the proprietor of the only shop in the parish. +She had nothing to do with church matters except on Sunday, and +she even went so far as to neglect to send for the rector when +one of her children lay dying. She was attacked for the +omission, but she defended herself.</p> +<p>‘What was the use when the poor dear was only seven year +old? What call was there for him to come to a blessed +innocent like that? I did tell him to look in when my +husband was took, for I know as before we were married there was +something atween him and that gal Sanders. He never would +own up to me about it, and I thought as he might to a clergyman, +and, if he did, it would ease his mind and make it a bit better +for him afterwards; but, Lord! it warn’t no use, for he +went off and we didn’t so much as hear her name, not even +when he was a-wandering. I says to myself when the parson +left, “What’s the good of having +you?”’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn was a Christian, but she was a disciple of St James +rather than of St Paul. She believed, of course, the +doctrines of the Catechism, in the sense that she denied none, +and would have assented to all if she had been questioned +thereon; but her belief that ‘faith, if it hath not works, +is dead, being alone,’ was something very vivid and very +practical.</p> +<p>Her estimate, too, of the relative values of the virtues and +of the relative sinfulness of sins was original, and the rector +therefore told all his parishioners that she was little better +than a heathen. The common failings in that part of the +country amongst the poor were Saturday-night drunkenness and +looseness in the relations between the young men and young +women. Mrs Caffyn’s indignation never rose to the +correct boiling point against these crimes. The rector once +ventured to say, as the case was next door to her,—</p> +<p>‘It is very sad, is it not, Mrs Caffyn, that Polesden +should be so addicted to drink. I hope he did not disturb +you last Saturday night. I have given the constable +directions to look after the street more closely on Saturday +evening, and if Polesden again offends he must be taken +up.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn was behind her own counter. She had just +served a customer with two ounces of Dutch cheese, and she sat +down on her stool. Being rather a heavy woman she always +sat down when she was not busy, and she never rose merely to +talk.</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is sad, sir, and Polesden isn’t no +particular friend of mine, but I tell you what’s sad too, +sir, and that’s the way them people are mucked up in that +cottage. Why, their living room opens straight on the road, +and the wind comes in fit to blow your head off, and when he goes +home o’ nights, there’s them children a-squalling, +and he can’t bide there and do nothing.’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid, though, Mrs Caffyn, there must be +something radically wrong with that family. I suppose you +know all about the eldest daughter?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir, I <i>have</i> heard it: it wouldn’t be +Great Oakhurst if I hadn’t, but p’r’aps, sir, +you’ve never been upstairs in that house, and yet a house +it isn’t. There’s just two sleeping-rooms, +that’s all; it’s shameful, it isn’t +decent. Well, that gal, she goes away to service. +Maybe, sir, them premises at the farm are also unbeknown to +you. In the back kitchen there’s a broadish sort of +shelf as Jim climbs into o’ nights, and it has a rail round +it to keep you from a-falling out, and there’s a ladder as +they draws up in the day as goes straight up from that kitchen to +the gal’s bedroom door. It’s downright +disgraceful, and I don’t believe the Lord A’mighty +would be marciful to neither of <i>us</i> if we was tried like +that.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn bethought herself of the ‘us’ and was +afraid that even she had gone a little too far; ‘leastways, +speaking for myself, sir,’ she added.</p> +<p>The rector turned rather red, and repented his attempt to +enlist Mrs Caffyn.</p> +<p>‘If the temptations are so great, Mrs Caffyn, that is +all the more reason why those who are liable to them should seek +the means which are provided in order that they may be +overcome. I believe the Polesdens are very lax attendants +at church, and I don’t think they ever +communicated.’</p> +<p>Mrs Polesden at that moment came in for an ounce of tea, and +as Mrs Caffyn rose to weigh it, the rector departed with a stiff +‘good-morning,’ made to do duty for both women.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs Caffyn</span> persuaded Madge to go to +bed at once, after giving her ‘something to comfort +her.’ In the morning her kind hostess came to her +bedside.</p> +<p>‘You’ve got a mother, haven’t +you—leastways, I know you have, because you wrote to +her.’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Well, and you lives with her and she looks after +you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘And she’s fond of you, maybe?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes.’</p> +<p>‘That’s a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go +back in the cart to Letherhead, and you’ll catch the Darkin +coach to London.’</p> +<p>‘You have been very good to me; what have I to pay +you?’</p> +<p>‘Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it +would just look as if I’d trapped you here to get something +out of you. Pay! no, not a penny.’</p> +<p>‘I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I +will not offer anything. I don’t know how to thank +you enough.’</p> +<p>Madge took Mrs Caffyn’s hand in hers and pressed it +firmly.</p> +<p>‘Besides, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the +sheets a little, ‘you won’t mind my saying it, I +expex you are in trouble. There’s something on your +mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it is.’</p> +<p>Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the +light; Mrs Caffyn sat between her and the window.</p> +<p>‘Look you here, my dear; don’t you suppose I meant +to say anything to hurt you. The moment I looked on you I +was drawed to you like; I couldn’t help it. I +see’d what was the matter, but I was all the more drawed, +and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference. +That’s like me; sometimes I’m drawed that way and +sometimes t’other way, and it’s never no use for me +to try to go against it. I ain’t a-going to say +anything more to you; God-A’mighty, He’s above us +all; but p’r’aps you may be comm’ this way +again some day, and then you’ll look in.’</p> +<p>Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs +Caffyn’s hand, but was silent.</p> +<p>The next morning, after Madge’s return, Mrs Cork, the +landlady, presented herself at the sitting-room door and +‘wished to speak with Mrs Hopgood for a minute.’</p> +<p>‘Come in, Mrs Cork.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer as you should come +downstairs.’</p> +<p>Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She +had a face of which it was impossible to recollect, when it had +been seen even a dozen times, any feature except the eyes, which +were steel-blue, a little bluer than the faceted head of the +steel poker in her parlour, but just as hard. She lived in +the basement with a maid, much like herself but a little more +human. Although the front underground room was furnished +Mrs Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions, and a +kind of apron of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly +all the year. She was a woman of what she called regular +habits. No lodger was ever permitted to transgress her +rules, or to have meals ten minutes before or ten minutes after +the appointed time. She had undoubtedly been married, but +who Cork could have been was a marvel. Why he died, and why +there were never any children were no marvels. At two +o’clock her grate was screwed up to the narrowest possible +dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves and +cabbage stalks were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. +No meat, by the way, was ever roasted—it was considered +wasteful—everything was baked or boiled. After +half-past four not a bit of anything that was not cold was +allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the first of +April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out the +moment tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very +well and Clara wished to give her mother something warm. +She rang the bell and asked for hot water. Maria came up +and disappeared without a word after receiving the message. +Presently she returned.</p> +<p>‘Mrs Cork, miss, wishes me to tell you as it was never +understood as ’ot water would be required after tea, and +she hasn’t got any.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood had a fire, although it was not yet the +thirty-first of October, for it was very damp and raw. She +had with much difficulty induced Mrs Cork to concede this favour +(which probably would not have been granted if the coals had not +yielded a profit of threepence a scuttleful), and Clara, +therefore, asked if she could not have the kettle upstairs. +Again Maria disappeared and returned.</p> +<p>‘Mrs Cork says, miss, as it’s very ill-convenient +as the kettle is cleaned up agin to-morrow, and if you can do +without it she will be obliged.’</p> +<p>It was of no use to continue the contest, and Clara bethought +herself of a little ‘Etna’ she had in her +bedroom. She went to the druggist’s, bought some +methylated spirit, and obtained what she wanted.</p> +<p>Mrs Cork had one virtue and one weakness. Her virtue was +cleanliness, but she persecuted the ‘blacks,’ not +because she objected to dirt as dirt, but because it was +unauthorised, appeared without permission at irregular hours, and +because the glittering polish on varnished paint and red mahogany +was a pleasure to her. She liked the dirt, too, in a way, +for she enjoyed the exercise of her ill-temper on it and the +pursuit of it to destruction. Her weakness was an enormous +tom-cat which had a bell round its neck and slept in a basket in +the kitchen, the best-behaved and most moral cat in the +parish. At half-past nine every evening it was let out into +the back-yard and vanished. At ten precisely it was heard +to mew and was immediately admitted. Not once in a +twelvemonth did that cat prolong its love making after five +minutes to ten.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood went upstairs to her room, Mrs Cork following and +closing the door.</p> +<p>‘If you please, ma’am, I wish to give you notice +to leave this day week.’</p> +<p>‘What is the matter, Mrs Cork?’</p> +<p>‘Well, ma’am, for one thing, I didn’t know +as you’d bring a bird with you.’</p> +<p>It was a pet bird belonging to Madge.</p> +<p>‘But what harm does the bird do? It gives no +trouble; my daughter attends to it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, ma’am, but it worrits my Joseph—the +cat, I mean. I found him the other mornin’ on the +table eyin’ it, and I can’t a-bear to see him +urritated.’</p> +<p>‘I should hardly have thought that a reason for parting +with good lodgers.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood had intended to move, as before explained, but she +did not wish to go till the three months had expired.</p> +<p>‘I don’t say as that is everything, but if you +wish me to tell you the truth, Miss Madge is not a person as I +like to keep in the house. I wish you to +know’—Mrs Cork suddenly became excited and +venomous—‘that I’m a respectable woman, and +have always let my apartments to respectable people, and do you +think I should ever let them to respectable people again if it +got about as I had had anybody as wasn’t respectable? +Where was she last night? And do you suppose as me as has +been a married woman can’t see the condition she’s +in? I say as you, Mrs Hopgood, ought to be ashamed of +yourself for bringing of such a person into a house like mine, +and you’ll please vacate these premises on the day +named.’ She did not wait for an answer, but banged +the door after her, and went down to her subterranean den.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood did not tell her children the true reason for +leaving. She merely said that Mrs Cork had been very +impertinent, and that they must look out for other rooms. +Madge instantly recollected Great Ormond Street, but she did not +know the number, and oddly enough she had completely forgotten +Mrs Caffyn’s name. It was a peculiar name, she had +heard it only once, she had not noticed it over the door, and her +exhaustion may have had something to do with her loss of +memory. She could not therefore write, and Mrs Hopgood +determined that she herself would go to Great Oakhurst. She +had another reason for her journey. She wished her kind +friend there to see that Madge had really a mother who cared for +her. She was anxious to confirm Madge’s story, and +Mrs Caffyn’s confidence. Clara desired to go also, +but Mrs Hopgood would not leave Madge alone, and the expense of a +double fare was considered unnecessary.</p> +<p>When Mrs Hopgood came to Letherhead on her return, the coach +was full inside, and she was obliged to ride outside, although +the weather was cold and threatening. In about half an hour +it began to rain heavily, and by the time she was in Pentonville +she was wet through. The next morning she ought to have +lain in bed, but she came down at her accustomed hour as Mrs Cork +was more than usually disagreeable, and it was settled that they +would leave at once if the rooms in Great Ormond Street were +available. Clara went there directly after breakfast, and +saw Mrs Marshall, who had already received an introductory letter +from her mother.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Marshall family included +Marshall and his wife. He was rather a small man, with +blackish hair, small lips, and with a nose just a little turned +up at the tip. As we have been informed, he was a +cabinet-maker. He worked for very good shops, and earned +about two pounds a week. He read books, but he did not know +their value, and often fancied he had made a great discovery on a +bookstall of an author long ago superseded and worthless. +He belonged to a mechanic’s institute, and was fond of +animal physiology; heard courses of lectures on it at the +institute, and had studied two or three elementary +handbooks. He found in a second-hand dealer’s shop a +model, which could be taken to pieces, of the inside of the human +body. He had also bought a diagram of a man, showing the +circulation, and this he had hung in his bedroom, his +mother-in-law objecting most strongly on the ground that its +effect on his wife was injurious. He had a notion that the +world might be regenerated if men and women were properly +instructed in physiological science, and if before marriage they +would study their own physical peculiarities, and those of their +intended partners. The crossing of peculiarities +nevertheless presented difficulties. A man with long legs +surely ought to choose a woman with short legs, but if a man who +was mathematical married a woman who was mathematical, the result +might be a mathematical prodigy. On the other hand the +parents of the prodigy might each have corresponding qualities, +which, mixed with the mathematical tendency, would completely +nullify it. The path of duty therefore was by no means +plain. However, Marshall was sure that great cities dwarfed +their inhabitants, and as he himself was not so tall as his +father, and, moreover, suffered from bad digestion, and had a +tendency to ‘run to head,’ he determined to select as +his wife a ‘daughter of the soil,’ to use his own +phrase, above the average height, with a vigorous constitution +and plenty of common sense. She need not be bookish, +‘he could supply all that himself.’ +Accordingly, he married Sarah Caffyn. His mother and Mrs +Caffyn had been early friends. He was not mistaken in +Sarah. She was certainly robust; she was a shrewd +housekeeper, and she never read anything, except now and then a +paragraph or two in the weekly newspaper, notwithstanding (for +there were no children), time hung rather heavily on her +hands. One child had been born, but to Marshall’s +surprise and disappointment it was a poor, rickety thing, and +died before it was a twelvemonth old.</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall was not a very happy woman. Marshall was a +great politician and spent many of his evenings away from home at +political meetings. He never informed her what he had been +doing, and if he had told her, she would neither have understood +nor cared anything about it. At Great Oakhurst she heard +everything and took an interest in it, and she often wished with +all her heart that the subject which occupied Marshall’s +thoughts was not Chartism but the draining of that heavy, +rush-grown bit of rough pasture that lay at the bottom of the +village. He was very good and kind to her, and she never +imagined, before marriage, that he ought to be more. She +was sure that at Great Oakhurst she would have been quite +comfortable with him but somehow, in London, it was +different. ‘I don’t know how it is,’ she +said one day, ‘the sort of husband as does for the country +doesn’t do for London.’</p> +<p>At Great Oakhurst, where the doors were always open into the +yard and the garden, where every house was merely a covered bit +of the open space, where people were always in and out, and women +never sat down, except to their meals, or to do a little +stitching or sewing, it was really not necessary, as Mrs Caffyn +observed, that husband and wife should ‘hit it so +fine.’ Mrs Marshall hated all the conveniences of +London. She abominated particularly the taps, and longed to +be obliged in all weathers to go out to the well and wind up the +bucket. She abominated also the dust-bin, for it was a +pleasure to be compelled—so at least she thought it +now—to walk down to the muck-heap and throw on it what the +pig could not eat. Nay, she even missed that corner of the +garden against the elder-tree, where the pig-stye was, for +‘you could smell the elder-flowers there in the +spring-time, and the pig-stye wasn’t as bad as the stuffy +back room in Great Ormond Street when three or four men were in +it.’ She did all she could to spend her energy on her +cooking and cleaning, but ‘there was no satisfaction in +it,’ and she became much depressed, especially after the +child died. This was the main reason why Mrs Caffyn +determined to live with her. Marshall was glad she resolved +to come. His wife had her full share of the common sense he +desired, but the experiment had not altogether succeeded. +He knew she was lonely, and he was sorry for her, although he did +not see how he could mend matters. He reflected carefully, +nothing had happened which was a surprise to him, the +relationship was what he had supposed it would be, excepting that +the child did not live and its mother was a little +miserable. There was nothing he would not do for her, but +he really had nothing more to offer her.</p> +<p>Although Mrs Marshall had made up her mind that husbands and +wives could not be as contented with one another in the big city +as they would be in a village, a suspicion crossed her mind one +day that, even in London, the relationship might be different +from her own. She was returning from Great Oakhurst after a +visit to her mother. She had stayed there for about a month +after her child’s death, and she travelled back to town +with a Letherhead woman, who had married a journeyman tanner, who +formerly worked in the Letherhead tan-yard, and had now moved to +Bermondsey, a horrid hole, worse than Great Ormond Street. +Both Marshall and the tanner were at the ‘Swan with Two +Necks’ to meet the covered van, and the tanner’s wife +jumped out first.</p> +<p>‘Hullo, old gal, here you are,’ cried the tanner, +and clasped her in his brown, bark-stained arms, giving her, +nothing loth, two or three hearty kisses. They were so much +excited at meeting one another, that they forgot their friends, +and marched off without bidding them good-bye. Mrs Marshall +was welcomed in quieter fashion.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ she thought to herself. ‘Red +Tom,’ as the tanner was called, ‘is not used to +London ways. They are, perhaps, correct for London, but +Marshall might now and then remember that I have not been brought +up to them.’</p> +<p>To return, however, to the Hopgoods. Before the +afternoon they were in their new quarters, happily for them, for +Mrs Hopgood became worse. On the morrow she was seriously +ill, inflammation of the lungs appeared, and in a week she was +dead. What Clara and Madge suffered cannot be told +here. Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we discover that +although death is commonplace it is terribly original. We +may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to +us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are +entirely unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss +so much as the strength of the bond which is broken that is the +surprise, and we are debtors in a way to death for revealing +something in us which ordinary life disguises. Long after +the first madness of their grief had passed, Clara and Madge were +astonished to find how dependent they had been on their +mother. They were grown-up women accustomed to act for +themselves, but they felt unsteady, and as if deprived of +customary support. The reference to her had been constant, +although it was often silent, and they were not conscious of +it. A defence from the outside waste desert had been broken +down, their mother had always seemed to intervene between them +and the world, and now they were exposed and shelterless.</p> +<p>Three parts of Mrs Hopgood’s little income was mainly an +annuity, and Clara and Madge found that between them they had but +seventy-five pounds a year.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Frank</span> could not rest. He +wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; the letter went to Mrs +Cork’s, and was returned to him. He saw that the +Hopgoods had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, he +determined at any cost to go home. He accordingly alleged +ill-health, a pretext not altogether fictitious, and within a few +days after the returned letter reached him he was back at Stoke +Newington. He went immediately to the address in +Pentonville which he found on the envelope, but was very shortly +informed by Mrs Cork that ‘she knew nothing whatever about +them.’ He walked round Myddelton Square, hopeless, +for he had no clue whatever.</p> +<p>What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused +some young men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was +altogether different. There was a chance of discovery, and +if his crime should come to light his whole future life would be +ruined. He pictured his excommunication, his father’s +agony, and it was only when it seemed possible that the water +might close over the ghastly thing thrown in it, and no ripple +reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to breathe +again. Immediately he asked himself, however, <i>if</i> he +could live with his father and wear a mask, and never betray his +dreadful secret. So he wandered homeward in the most +miserable of all conditions; he was paralysed by the intricacy of +the coil which enveloped and grasped him.</p> +<p>That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his +father’s house; and, of course, he was expected to +assist. It would have suited his mood better if he could +have been in his own room, or out in the streets, but absence +would have been inconsistent with his disguise, and might have +led to betrayal. Consequently he was present, and the +gaiety of the company and the excitement of his favourite +exercise, brought about for a time forgetfulness of his +trouble. Amongst the performers was a distant cousin, +Cecilia Morland, a young woman rather tall and fully developed; +not strikingly beautiful, but with a lovely reddish-brown tint on +her face, indicative of healthy, warm, rich pulsations. She +possessed a contralto voice, of a quality like that of a +blackbird, and it fell to her and to Frank to sing. She was +dressed in a fashion perhaps a little more courtly than was usual +in the gatherings at Mr Palmer’s house, and Frank, as he +stood beside her at the piano, could not restrain his eyes from +straying every now and then a way from his music to her +shoulders, and once nearly lost himself, during a solo which +required a little unusual exertion, in watching the movement of a +locket and of what was for a moment revealed beneath it. He +escorted her amidst applause to a corner of the room, and the two +sat down side by side.</p> +<p>‘What a long time it is, Frank, since you and I sang +that duet together. We have seen nothing of you +lately.’</p> +<p>‘Of course not; I was in Germany.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do +you remember that summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, +and the part songs which astonished our neighbours just as it was +growing dark? I recollect you and I tried together that +very duet for the first time with the old lodging-house +piano.’</p> +<p>Frank remembered that evening well.</p> +<p>‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did +not keep time: what were you dreaming about?’</p> +<p>‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it +oppressive? Let us go into the conservatory for a +minute.’</p> +<p>The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, +just inside, and under the orange tree.</p> +<p>‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we +have a musical evening this day fortnight. You will +come? Promise; and we must sing that duet again, and sing +it properly.’</p> +<p>He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red +begonia, and gave it to her.</p> +<p>‘That is a pledge. It is very good of +you.’</p> +<p>She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but +she dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees +to find it; rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, +and his head nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily.</p> +<p>‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but +mind, I shall keep this flower for a fortnight and a day, and if +you make any excuses I shall return it faded and +withered.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I will come.’</p> +<p>‘Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last +time. No bad throat. Play me false, and there will be +a pretty rebuke for you—a dead flower.’</p> +<p><i>Play me false</i>! It was as if there were some +stoppage in a main artery to his brain. <i>Play me +false</i>! It rang in his ears, and for a moment he saw +nothing but the scene at the Hall with Miranda. Fortunately +for him, somebody claimed Cecilia, and he slunk back into the +greenhouse.</p> +<p>One of Mr Palmer’s favourite ballads was <i>The Three +Ravens</i>. Its pathos unfits it for an ordinary +drawing-room, but as the music at Mr Palmer’s was not of +the common kind, <i>The Three Ravens</i> was put on the list for +that night.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>She was dead herself ere evensong +time</i>. <i>With a down</i>, <i>hey down</i>, <i>hey +down</i>,<br /> +<i>God send every gentleman</i><br /> +<i>Such hawks</i>, <i>such hounds</i>, <i>and such a +leman</i>. <i>With down</i>, <i>hey down</i>, <i>hey +down</i>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he +listened, he painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge +in a mean room, in a mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The +song ceased, and one for him stood next. He heard voices +calling him, but he passed out into the garden and went down to +the further end, hiding himself behind the shrubs. +Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by +hearing an instrumental piece begin.</p> +<p>Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for +his unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he +considered to be his duty. He recalled with an effort all +Madge’s charms, mental and bodily, and he tried to break +his heart for her. He was in anguish because he found that +in order to feel as he ought to feel some effort was necessary; +that treason to her was possible, and because he had looked with +such eyes upon his cousin that evening. He saw himself as +something separate from himself, and although he knew what he saw +to be flimsy and shallow, he could do nothing to deepen it, +absolutely nothing! It was not the betrayal of that +thunderstorm which now tormented him. He could have +represented that as a failure to be surmounted; he could have +repented it. It was his own inner being from which he +revolted, from limitations which are worse than crimes, for who, +by taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature?</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next morning found Frank once +more in Myddelton Square. He looked up at the house; the +windows were all shut, and the blinds were drawn down. He +had half a mind to call again, but Mrs Cork’s manner had +been so offensive and repellent that he desisted. Presently +the door opened, and Maria, the maid, came out to clean the +doorsteps. Maria, as we have already said, was a little +more human than her mistress, and having overheard the +conversation between her and Frank at the first interview, had +come to the conclusion that Frank was to be pitied, and she took +a fancy to him. Accordingly, when he passed her, she looked +up and said,—‘Good-morning.’ Frank +stopped, and returned her greeting.</p> +<p>‘You was here the other day, sir, asking where them +Hopgoods had gone.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Frank, eagerly, ‘do you know +what has become of them?’</p> +<p>‘I helped the cabman with the boxes, and I heard Mrs +Hopgood say “Great Ormond Street,” but I have +forgotten the number.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you very much.’</p> +<p>Frank gave the astonished and grateful Maria half-a-crown, and +went off to Great Ormond Street at once. He paced up and +down the street half a dozen times, hoping he might recognise in +a window some ornament from Fenmarket, or perhaps that he might +be able to distinguish a piece of Fenmarket furniture, but his +search was in vain, for the two girls had taken furnished rooms +at the back of the house. His quest was not renewed that +week. What was there to be gained by going over the ground +again? Perhaps they might have found the lodgings +unsuitable and have moved elsewhere. At church on Sunday he +met his cousin Cecilia, who reminded him of his promise.</p> +<p>‘See,’ she said, ‘here is the begonia. +I put it in my prayer-book in order to preserve it when I could +keep it in water no longer, and it has stained the leaf, and +spoilt the Athanasian Creed. You will have it sent to you +if you are faithless. Reflect on your emotions, sir, when +you receive a dead flower, and you have the bitter consciousness +also that you have damaged my creed without any +recompense.’</p> +<p>It was impossible not to protest that he had no thought of +breaking his engagement, although, to tell the truth, he had +wished once or twice he could find some way out of it. He +walked with her down the churchyard path to her carriage, +assisted her into it, saluted her father and mother, and then +went home with his own people.</p> +<p>The evening came, he sang with Cecilia, and it was observed, +and he himself observed it, how completely their voices +harmonised. He was not without a competitor, a handsome +young baritone, who was much commended. When he came to the +end of his performance everybody said what a pity it was that the +following duet could not also be given, a duet which Cecilia knew +perfectly well. She was very much pressed to take her part +with him, but she steadily refused, on the ground that she had +not practised it, that she had already sung once, and that she +was engaged to sing once more with her cousin. Frank was +sitting next to her, and she added, so as to be heard by him +alone, ‘He is no particular favourite of mine.’</p> +<p>There was no direct implication that Frank was a favourite, +but an inference was possible, and at least it was clear that she +preferred to reserve herself for him. Cecilia’s +gifts, her fortune, and her gay, happy face had made many a young +fellow restless, and had brought several proposals, none of which +had been accepted. All this Frank knew, and how could he +repress something more than satisfaction when he thought that +perhaps he might have been the reason why nobody as yet had been +able to win her. She always called him Frank, for although +they were not first cousins, they were cousins. He +generally called her Cecilia, but she was Cissy in her own +house. He was hardly close enough to venture upon the more +familiar nickname, but to-night, as they rose to go to the piano, +he said, and the baritone sat next to her,—</p> +<p>‘Now, <i>Cissy</i>, once more.’</p> +<p>She looked at him with just a little start of surprise, and a +smile spread itself over her face. After they had finished, +and she never sang better, the baritone noticed that she seemed +indisposed to return to her former place, and she retired with +Frank to the opposite corner of the room.</p> +<p>‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if being happy in a +thing is a sign of being born to do it. If it is, I am born +to be a musician.’</p> +<p>‘I should say it is; if two people are quite happy in +one another’s company, it is as a sign they were born for +one another.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, if they are sure they are happy. It is +easier for me to be sure that I am happier with a thing than with +a person.’</p> +<p>‘Do you think so? Why?’</p> +<p>‘There is the uncertainty whether the person is happy +with me. I cannot be altogether happy with anybody unless I +know I make him happy.’</p> +<p>‘What kind of person is he with whom you <i>could</i> be +without making him happy?’</p> +<p>The baritone rose to the upper F with a clash of chords on the +piano, and the company broke up. Frank went home with but +one thought in his head—the thought of Cecilia.</p> +<p>His bedroom faced the south-west, its windows were open, and +when he entered, the wind, which was gradually rising, struck him +on the face and nearly forced the door out of his hand; the fire +in his blood was quenched, and the image of Cecilia +receded. He looked out, and saw reflected on the low clouds +the dull glare of the distant city. Just over there was +Great Ormond Street, and underneath that dim, red light, like the +light of a great house burning, was Madge Hopgood. He lay +down, turning over from side to side in the vain hope that by +change of position he might sleep. After about an +hour’s feverish tossing, he just lost himself, but not in +that oblivion which slumber usually brought him. He was so +far awake that he saw what was around him, and yet, he was so far +released from the control of his reason that he did not recognise +what he saw, and it became part of a new scene created by his +delirium. The full moon, clearing away the clouds as she +moved upwards, had now passed round to the south, and just caught +the white window-curtain farthest from him. He half-opened +his eyes, his mad dream still clung to him, and there was the +dead Madge before him, pale in death, and holding a child in her +arms! He distinctly heard himself scream as he started up +in affright; he could not tell where he was; the spectre faded +and the furniture and hangings transformed themselves into their +familiar reality. He could not lie down again, and rose and +dressed himself. He was not the man to believe that the +ghost could be a revelation or a prophecy, but, nevertheless, he +was once more overcome with fear, a vague dread partly +justifiable by the fact of Madge, by the fact that his father +might soon know what had happened, that others also might know, +Cecilia for example, but partly also a fear going beyond all the +facts, and not to be accounted for by them, a strange, horrible +trembling such as men feel in earthquakes when the solid rock +shakes, on which everything rests.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Frank came downstairs to +breakfast the conversation turned upon his return to +Germany. He did not object to going, although it can hardly +be said that he willed to go. He was in that perilous +condition in which the comparison of reasons is impossible, and +the course taken depends upon some chance impulse of the moment, +and is a mere drift. He could not leave, however, in +complete ignorance of Madge, and with no certainty as to her +future. He resolved therefore to make one more effort to +discover the house. That was all which he determined to +do. What was to happen when he had found it, he did not +know. He was driven to do something, which could not be of +any importance, save for what must follow, but he was unable to +bring himself even to consider what was to follow. He knew +that at Fenmarket one or other of the sisters went out soon after +breakfast to make provision for the day, and perhaps, if they +kept up this custom, he might be successful in his search. +He accordingly stationed himself in Great Ormond Street at about +half-past nine, and kept watch from the Lamb’s Conduit +Street end, shifting his position as well as he could, in order +to escape notice. He had not been there half an hour when +he saw a door open, and Madge came out and went westwards. +She turned down Devonshire Street as if on her way to +Holborn. He instantly ran back to Theobalds Road, and when +he came to the corner of Devonshire Street she was about ten +yards from him, and he faced her. She stopped irresolutely, +as if she had a mind to return, but as he approached her, and she +found she was recognised, she came towards him.</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge,’ he cried, ‘I want to speak +to you. I must speak with you.’</p> +<p>‘Better not; let me go.’</p> +<p>‘I say I <i>must</i> speak to you.’</p> +<p>‘We cannot talk here; let me go.’</p> +<p>‘I must! I must! come with me.’</p> +<p>She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not +refuse. He called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word +having been spoken during those ten minutes, they were at St +Paul’s. The morning service had just begun, and they +sat down in a corner far away from the worshippers.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Madge,’ he began, ‘I implore you to +take me back. I love you. I do love you, +and—and—I cannot leave you.’</p> +<p>She was side by side with the father of her child about to be +born. He was not and could not be as another man to her, +and for the moment there was the danger lest she should mistake +this secret bond for love. The thought of what had passed +between them, and of the child, his and hers, almost overpowered +her.</p> +<p>‘I cannot,’ he repeated. ‘I +<i>ought</i> not. What will become of me?’</p> +<p>She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement +was not contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was +resonant, but it was not a note which was consonant with hers, +and it did not stir her to respond. He might love her, he +was sincere enough to sacrifice himself for her, and to remain +faithful to her, but the voice was not altogether that of his own +true self. Partly, at least, it was the voice of what he +considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm. She was +silent.</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ he continued, ‘ought you to +refuse? You have some love for me. Is it not greater +than the love which thousands feel for one another. Will +you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of someone +besides, who may be very dear to you? <i>Ought</i> you not, +I say, to listen?’</p> +<p>The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a +voluntary, rather longer than usual, and the congregation was +leaving, some of them passing near Madge and Frank, and casting +idle glances on the young couple who had evidently come neither +to pray nor to admire the architecture. Madge recognised +the well-known St Ann’s fugue, and, strange to say, even at +such a moment it took entire possession of her; the golden ladder +was let down and celestial visitors descended. When the +music ceased she spoke.</p> +<p>‘It would be a crime.’</p> +<p>‘A crime, but I—’ She stopped him.</p> +<p>‘I know what you are going to say. I know what is +the crime to the world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a +worse crime, if a ceremony had been performed beforehand by a +priest, and the worst of crimes would be that ceremony now. +I must go.’ She rose and began to move towards the +door.</p> +<p>He walked silently by her side till they were in St +Paul’s churchyard, when she took him by the hand, pressed +it affectionately and suddenly turned into one of the courts that +lead towards Paternoster Row. He did not follow her, +something repelled him, and when he reached home it crossed his +mind that marriage, after such delay, would be a poor recompense, +as he could not thereby conceal her disgrace.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was clear that these two women +could not live in London on seventy-five pounds a year, most +certainly not with the prospect before them, and Clara cast about +for something to do. Marshall had a brother-in-law, a +certain Baruch Cohen, a mathematical instrument maker in +Clerkenwell, and to him Marshall accidentally one day talked +about Clara, and said that she desired an occupation. Cohen +himself could not give Clara any work, but he knew a second-hand +bookseller, an old man who kept a shop in Holborn, who wanted a +clerk, and Clara thus found herself earning another pound a +week. With this addition she and her sister could manage to +pay their way and provide what Madge would want. The hours +were long, the duties irksome and wearisome, and, worst of all, +the conditions under which they were performed, were not only as +bad as they could be, but their badness was of a kind to which +Clara had never been accustomed, so that she felt every particle +of it in its full force. The windows of the shop were, of +course, full of books, and the walls were lined with them. +In the middle of the shop also was a range of shelves, and books +were stacked on the floor, so that the place looked like a huge +cubical block of them through which passages had been +bored. At the back the shop became contracted in width to +about eight feet, and consequently the central shelves were not +continued there, but just where they ended, and overshadowed by +them were a little desk and a stool. All round the desk +more books were piled, and some manœuvring was necessary in +order to sit down. This was Clara’s station. +Occasionally, on a brilliant, a very brilliant day in summer, she +could write without gas, but, perhaps, there were not a dozen +such days in the year. By twisting herself sideways she +could just catch a glimpse of a narrow line of sky over some +heavy theology which was not likely to be disturbed, and was +therefore put at the top of the window, and once when somebody +bought the <i>Calvin Joann</i>. <i>Opera Omnia</i>, 9 +<i>vol. folio</i>, <i>Amst.</i> 1671—it was very clear that +afternoon—she actually descried towards seven o’clock +a blessed star exactly in the middle of the gap the Calvin had +left.</p> +<p>The darkness was very depressing, and poor Clara often shut +her eyes as she bent over her day-book and ledger, and thought of +the Fenmarket flats where the sun could be seen bisected by the +horizon at sun-rising and sun-setting, and where even the +southern Antares shone with diamond glitter close to the ground +during summer nights. She tried to reason with herself +during the dreadful smoke fogs; she said to herself that they +were only half-a-mile thick, and she carried herself up in +imagination and beheld the unclouded azure, the filthy smother +lying all beneath her, but her dream did not continue, and +reality was too strong for her. Worse, perhaps, than the +eternal gloom was the dirt. She was naturally fastidious, +and as her skin was thin and sensitive, dust was physically a +discomfort. Even at Fenmarket she was continually washing +her hands and face, and, indeed, a wash was more necessary to her +after a walk than food or drink. It was impossible to +remain clean in Holborn for five minutes; everything she touched +was foul with grime; her collar and cuffs were black with it when +she went home to her dinner, and it was not like the honest, +blowing road-sand of Fenmarket highways, but a loathsome +composition of everything disgusting which could be produced by +millions of human beings and animals packed together in +soot. It was a real misery to her and made her almost +ill. However, she managed to set up for herself a little +lavatory in the basement, and whenever she had a minute at her +command, she descended and enjoyed the luxury of a cool, dripping +sponge and a piece of yellow soap. The smuts began to +gather again the moment she went upstairs, but she strove to arm +herself with a little philosophy against them. ‘What +is there in life,’ she moralised, smiling at her +sermonising, ‘which once won is for ever won? It is +always being won and always being lost.’ Her master, +fortunately, was one of the kindest of men, an old gentleman of +about sixty-five, who wore a white necktie, clean every +morning. He was really a <i>gentle</i>man in the true sense +of that much misused word, and not a mere <i>trades</i>man; that +is to say, he loved his business, not altogether for the money it +brought him, but as an art. He was known far and wide, and +literary people were glad to gossip with him. He never +pushed his wares, and he hated to sell them to anybody who did +not know their value. He amused Clara one afternoon when a +carriage stopped at the door, and a lady inquired if he had a +Manning and Bray’s <i>History of Surrey</i>. Yes, he +had a copy, and he pointed to the three handsome, tall +folios.</p> +<p>‘What is the price?’</p> +<p>‘Twelve pounds ten.’</p> +<p>‘I think I will have them.’</p> +<p>‘Madam, you will pardon me, but, if I were you, I would +not. I think something much cheaper will suit you +better. If you will allow me, I will look out for you and +will report in a few days.’</p> +<p>‘Oh! very well,’ and she departed.</p> +<p>‘The wife of a brassfounder,’ he said to Clara; +‘made a lot of money, and now he has bought a house at +Dulwich and is setting up a library. Somebody has told him +that he ought to have a county history, and that Manning and Bray +is the book. Manning and Bray! What he wants is a +Dulwich and Denmark Hill Directory. No, no,’ and he +took down one of the big volumes, blew the dust off the top edges +and looked at the old book-plate inside, ‘you won’t +go there if I can help it.’ He took a fancy to Clara +when he found she loved literature, although what she read was +out of his department altogether, and his perfectly human +behaviour to her prevented that sense of exile and loneliness +which is so horrible to many a poor creature who comes up to +London to begin therein the struggle for existence. She +read and meditated a good deal in the shop, but not to much +profit, for she was continually interrupted, and the thought of +her sister intruded itself perpetually.</p> +<p>Madge seldom or never spoke of her separation from Frank, but +one night, when she was somewhat less reserved than usual, Clara +ventured to ask her if she had heard from him since they +parted.</p> +<p>‘I met him once.’</p> +<p>‘Madge, do you mean that he found out where we are +living, and that he came to see you?’</p> +<p>‘No, it was just round the corner as I was going towards +Holborn.’</p> +<p>‘Nothing could have brought him here but +yourself,’ said Clara, slowly.</p> +<p>‘Clara, you doubt?’</p> +<p>‘No, no! I doubt you? Never!’</p> +<p>‘But you hesitate; you reflect. Speak +out.’</p> +<p>‘God forbid I should utter a word which would induce you +to disbelieve what you know to be right. It is much more +important to believe earnestly that something is morally right +than that it should be really right, and he who attempts to +displace a belief runs a certain risk, because he is not sure +that what he substitutes can be held with equal force. +Besides, each person’s belief, or proposed course of +action, is a part of himself, and if he be diverted from it and +takes up with that which is not himself, the unity of his nature +is impaired, and he loses himself.’</p> +<p>‘Which is as much as to say that the prophet is to break +no idols.’</p> +<p>‘You know I do not mean that, and you know, too, how +incapable I am of defending myself in argument. I never can +stand up for anything I say. I can now and then say +something, but, when I have said it, I run away.’</p> +<p>‘My dearest Clara,’ Madge put her arm over her +sister’s shoulder as they sat side by side, ‘do not +run away now; tell me just what you think of me.’</p> +<p>Clara was silent for a minute.</p> +<p>‘I have sometimes wondered whether you have not demanded +a little too much of yourself and Frank. It is always a +question of how much. There is no human truth which is +altogether true, no love which is altogether perfect. You +may possibly have neglected virtue or devotion such as you could +not find elsewhere, overlooking it because some failing, or the +lack of sympathy on some unimportant point, may at the moment +have been prominent. Frank loved you, Madge.’</p> +<p>Madge did not reply; she withdrew her arm from her +sister’s neck, threw herself back in her chair and closed +her eyes. She saw again the Fenmarket roads, that summer +evening, and she felt once more Frank’s burning +caresses. She thought of him as he left St Paul’s, +perhaps broken-hearted. Stronger than every other motive to +return to him, and stronger than ever, was the movement towards +him of that which belonged to him.</p> +<p>At last she cried out, literally cried, with a vehemence which +startled and terrified Clara,—</p> +<p>‘Clara, Clara, you know not what you do! For +God’s sake forbear!’ She was again silent, and +then she turned round hurriedly, hid her face, and sobbed +piteously. It lasted, however, but for a minute; she rose, +wiped her eyes, went to the window, came back again, and +said,—</p> +<p>‘It is beginning to snow.’</p> +<p>The iron pillar bolted to the solid rock had quivered and +resounded under the blow, but its vibrations were nothing more +than those of the rigid metal; the base was unshaken and, except +for an instant, the column had not been deflected a +hair’s-breadth.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr Cohen</span>, who had obtained the +situation indirectly for Clara, thought nothing more about it +until, one day, he went to the shop, and he then recollected his +recommendation, which had been given solely in faith, for he had +never seen the young woman, and had trusted entirely to +Marshall. He found her at her dark desk, and as he +approached her, she hastily put a mark in a book and closed +it.</p> +<p>‘Have you sold a little volume called <i>After Office +Hours</i> by a man named Robinson?’</p> +<p>‘I did not know we had it. I have never seen +it.’</p> +<p>‘I do not wonder, but I saw it here about six months +ago; it was up there,’ pointing to a top shelf. Clara +was about to mount the ladder, but he stopped her, and found what +he wanted. Some of the leaves were torn.</p> +<p>‘We can repair those for you; in about a couple of days +it shall be ready.’</p> +<p>He lingered a little, and at that moment another customer +entered. Clara went forward to speak to him, and Cohen was +able to see that it was the <i>Heroes and Hero Worship</i> she +had been studying, a course of lectures which had been given by a +Mr Carlyle, of whom Cohen knew something. As the customer +showed no signs of departing, Cohen left, saying he would call +again.</p> +<p>Before sending Robinson’s <i>After Office Hours</i> to +the binder, Clara looked at it. It was made up of short +essays, about twenty altogether, bound in dark-green cloth, +lettered at the side, and published in 1841. They were upon +the oddest subjects: such as, <i>Ought Children to learn Rules +before Reasons</i>? <i>The Higher Mathematics and +Materialism</i>. <i>Ought We to tell Those Whom We love +what We think about Them</i>? <i>Deductive Reasoning in +Politics</i>. <i>What Troubles ought We to Make Known and +What ought We to Keep Secret</i>: <i>Courage as a Science and an +Art</i>.</p> +<p>Clara did not read any one essay through, she had no time, but +she was somewhat struck with a few sentences which caught her +eye; for example—‘A mere dream, a vague hope, ought +in some cases to be more potent than a certainty in regulating +our action. The faintest vision of God should be more +determinative than the grossest earthly assurance.’</p> +<p>‘I knew a case in which a man had to encounter three +successive trials of all the courage and inventive faculty in +him. Failure in one would have been ruin. The odds +against him in each trial were desperate, and against ultimate +victory were overwhelming. Nevertheless, he made the +attempt, and was triumphant, by the narrowest margin, in every +struggle. That which is of most value to us is often +obtained in defiance of the laws of probability.’</p> +<p>‘What is precious in Quakerism is not so much the +doctrine of the Divine voice as that of the preliminary +stillness, the closure against other voices and the reduction of +the mind to a condition in which it can <i>listen</i>, in which +it can discern the merest whisper, inaudible when the world, or +interest, or passion, are permitted to speak.’</p> +<p>‘The acutest syllogiser can never develop the actual +consequences of any system of policy, or, indeed, of any change +in human relationship, man being so infinitely complex, and the +interaction of human forces so incalculable.’</p> +<p>‘Many of our speculative difficulties arise from the +unauthorised conception of an <i>omnipotent</i> God, a conception +entirely of our own creation, and one which, if we look at it +closely, has no meaning. It is because God <i>could</i> +have done otherwise, and did not, that we are confounded. +It may be distressing to think that God cannot do any better, but +it is not so distressing as to believe that He might have done +better had He so willed.’</p> +<p>Although these passages were disconnected, each of them seemed +to Clara to be written in a measure for herself, and her +curiosity was excited about the author. Perhaps the man who +called would say something about him.</p> +<p>Baruch Cohen was now a little over forty. He was half a +Jew, for his father was a Jew and his mother a Gentile. The +father had broken with Judaism, but had not been converted to any +Christian church or sect. He was a diamond-cutter, +originally from Holland, came over to England and married the +daughter of a mathematical instrument maker, at whose house he +lodged in Clerkenwell. The son was apprenticed to his +maternal grandfather’s trade, became very skilful at it, +worked at it himself, employed a man and a boy, and supplied +London shops, which sold his instruments at about three times the +price he obtained for them. Baruch, when he was very young, +married Marshall’s elder sister, but she died at the birth +of her first child and he had been a widower now for nineteen +years. He had often thought of taking another wife, and had +seen, during these nineteen years, two or three women with whom +he had imagined himself to be really in love, and to whom he had +been on the verge of making proposals, but in each case he had +hung back, and when he found that a second and a third had +awakened the same ardour for a time as the first, he distrusted +its genuineness. He was now, too, at a time of life when a +man has to make the unpleasant discovery that he is beginning to +lose the right to expect what he still eagerly desires, and that +he must beware of being ridiculous. It is indeed a very +unpleasant discovery. If he has done anything well which +was worth doing, or has made himself a name, he may be treated by +women with respect or adulation, but any passable boy of twenty +is really more interesting to them, and, unhappily, there is +perhaps so much of the man left in him that he would rather see +the eyes of a girl melt when she looked at him than be adored by +all the drawing-rooms in London as the author of the greatest +poem since <i>Paradise Lost</i>, or as the conqueror of half a +continent. Baruch’s life during the last nineteen +years had been such that he was still young, and he desired more +than ever, because not so blindly as he desired it when he was a +youth, the tender, intimate sympathy of a woman’s +love. It was singular that, during all those nineteen +years, he should not once have been overcome. It seemed to +him as if he had been held back, not by himself, but by some +external power, which refused to give any reasons for so +doing. There was now less chance of yielding than ever; he +was reserved and self-respectful, and his manner towards women +distinctly announced to them that he knew what he was and that he +had no claims whatever upon them. He was something of a +philosopher, too; he accepted, therefore, as well as he could, +without complaint, the inevitable order of nature, and he tried +to acquire, although often he failed, that blessed art of taking +up lightly and even with a smile whatever he was compelled to +handle. ‘It is possible,’ he said once, +‘to consider death too seriously.’ He was +naturally more than half a Jew; his features were Jewish, his +thinking was Jewish, and he believed after a fashion in the +Jewish sacred books, or, at anyrate, read them continuously, +although he had added to his armoury defensive weapons of another +type. In nothing was he more Jewish than in a tendency to +dwell upon the One, or what he called God, clinging still to the +expression of his forefathers although departing so widely from +them. In his ethics and system of life, as well as in his +religion, there was the same intolerance of a multiplicity which +was not reducible to unity. He seldom explained his theory, +but everybody who knew him recognised the difference which it +wrought between him and other men. There was a certain +concord in everything he said and did, as if it were directed by +some enthroned but secret principle.</p> +<p>He had encountered no particular trouble since his +wife’s death, but his life had been unhappy. He had +no friends, much as he longed for friendship, and he could not +give any reasons for his failure. He saw other persons more +successful, but he remained solitary. Their needs were not +so great as his, for it is not those who have the least but those +who have the most to give who most want sympathy. He had +often made advances; people had called on him and had appeared +interested in him, but they had dropped away. The cause was +chiefly to be found in his nationality. The ordinary +Englishman disliked him simply as a Jew, and the better sort were +repelled by a lack of geniality and by his inability to manifest +a healthy interest in personal details. Partly also the +cause was that those who care to speak about what is nearest to +them are very rare, and most persons find conversation easy in +proportion to the remoteness of its topics from them. +Whatever the reasons may have been, Baruch now, no matter what +the pressure from within might be, generally kept himself to +himself. It was a mistake and he ought not to have +retreated so far upon repulse. A word will sometimes, when +least expected, unlock a heart, a soul is gained for ever, and at +once there is much more than a recompense for the indifference of +years.</p> +<p>After the death of his wife, Baruch’s affection spent +itself upon his son Benjamin, whom he had apprenticed to a firm +of optical instrument makers in York. The boy was not very +much like his father. He was indifferent to that religion +by which his father lived, but he inherited an aptitude for +mathematics, which was very necessary in his trade. +Benjamin also possessed his father’s rectitude, trusted +him, and looked to him for advice to such a degree that even +Baruch, at last, thought it would be better to send him away from +home in order that he might become a little more self-reliant and +independent. It was the sorest of trials to part with him, +and, for some time after he left, Baruch’s loneliness was +intolerable. It was, however, relieved by a visit to York +perhaps once in four or five months, for whenever business could +be alleged as an excuse for going north, he managed, as he said, +‘to take York on his way.’</p> +<p>The day after he met Clara he started for Birmingham, and +although York was certainly not ‘on his way,’ he +pushed forward to the city and reached it on a Saturday +evening. He was to spend Sunday there, and on Sunday +morning he proposed that they should hear the cathedral service, +and go for a walk in the afternoon. To this suggestion +Benjamin partially assented. He wished to go to the +cathedral in the morning, but thought his father had better rest +after dinner. Baruch somewhat resented the insinuation of +possible fatigue consequent on advancing years.</p> +<p>‘What do you mean?’ he said; ‘you know well +enough I enjoy a walk in the afternoon; besides, I shall not see +much of you, and do not want to lose what little time I +have.’</p> +<p>About three, therefore, they started, and presently a girl met +them, who was introduced simply as ‘Miss +Masters.’</p> +<p>‘We are going to your side of the water,’ said the +son; ‘you may as well cross with us.’</p> +<p>They came to a point where a boat was moored, and a man was in +it. There was no regular ferry, but on Sundays he earned a +trifle by taking people to the opposite meadow, and thus enabling +them to vary their return journey to the city. When they +were about two-thirds of the way over, Benjamin observed that if +they stood up they could see the Minster. They all three +rose, and without an instant’s warning—they could not +tell afterwards how it happened—the boat half capsized, and +they were in eight or nine feet of water. Baruch could not +swim and went down at once, but on coming up close to the gunwale +he caught at it and held fast. Looking round, he saw that +Benjamin, who could swim well, had made for Miss Masters, and, +having caught her by the back of the neck, was taking her +ashore. The boatman, who could also swim, called out to +Baruch to hold on, gave the boat three or four vigorous strokes +from the stern, and Baruch felt the ground under his feet. +The boatman’s little cottage was not far off, and, when the +party reached it, Benjamin earnestly desired Miss Masters to take +off her wet clothes and occupy the bed which was offered +her. He himself would run home—it was not +half-a-mile—and, after having changed, would go to her +house and send her sister with what was wanted. He was just +off when it suddenly struck him that his father might need some +attention.</p> +<p>‘Oh, father—’ he began, but the +boatman’s wife interposed.</p> +<p>‘He can’t be left like that, and he can’t go +home; he’ll catch his death o’ cold, and there +isn’t but one more bed in the house, and that isn’t +quite fit to put a gentleman in. Howsomever, he must turn +in there, and my husband, he can go into the back-kitchen and rub +himself down. You won’t do yourself no good, Mr +Cohen,’ addressing the son, whom she knew, ‘by going +back; you’d better stay here and get into bed with your +father.’</p> +<p>In a few minutes the boatman would have gone on the errand, +but Benjamin could not lose the opportunity of sacrificing +himself for Miss Masters. He rushed off, and in +three-quarters of an hour had returned with the sister. +Having learned, after anxious inquiry, that Miss Masters, so far +as could be discovered, had not caught a chill, he went to his +father.</p> +<p>‘Well, father, I hope you are none the worse for the +ducking,’ he said gaily. ‘The next time you +come to York you’d better bring another suit of clothes +with you.’</p> +<p>Baruch turned round uneasily and did not answer +immediately. He had had a narrow escape from drowning.</p> +<p>‘Nothing of much consequence. Is your friend all +right?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes; I was anxious about her, for she is not very +strong, but I do not think she will come to much harm. I +made them light a fire in her room.’</p> +<p>‘Are they drying my clothes?’</p> +<p>‘I’ll go and see.’</p> +<p>He went away and encountered the elder Miss Masters, who told +him that her sister, feeling no ill effects from the plunge, had +determined to go home at once, and in fact was nearly +ready. Benjamin waited, and presently she came downstairs, +smiling.</p> +<p>‘Nothing the matter. I owe it to you, however, +that I am not now in another world.’</p> +<p>Benjamin was in an ecstasy, and considered himself bound to +accompany her to her door.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Baruch lay upstairs alone in no very happy +temper. He heard the conversation below, and knew that his +son had gone. In all genuine love there is something of +ferocious selfishness. The perfectly divine nature knows +how to keep it in check, and is even capable—supposing it +to be a woman’s nature—of contentment if the loved +one is happy, no matter with what or with whom; but the nature +only a little less than divine cannot, without pain, endure the +thought that it no longer owns privately and exclusively that +which it loves, even when it loves a child, and Baruch was +particularly excusable, considering his solitude. +Nevertheless, he had learned a little wisdom, and, what was of +much greater importance, had learned how to use it when he needed +it. It had been forced upon him; it was an adjustment to +circumstances, the wisest wisdom. It was not something +without any particular connection with him; it was rather the +external protection built up from within to shield him where he +was vulnerable; it was the answer to questions which had been put +to <i>him</i>, and not to those which had been put to other +people. So it came to pass that, when he said bitterly to +himself that, if he were at that moment lying dead at the bottom +of the river, Benjamin would have found consolation very near at +hand, he was able to reflect upon the folly of self-laceration, +and to rebuke himself for a complaint against what was simply the +order of Nature, and not a personal failure.</p> +<p>His self-conquest, however, was not very permanent. When +he left York the next morning, he fancied his son was not +particularly grieved, and he was passive under the thought that +an epoch in his life had come, that the milestones now began to +show the distance to the place to which he travelled, and, still +worse, that the boy who had been so close to him, and upon whom +he had so much depended, had gone from him.</p> +<p>There is no remedy for our troubles which is uniformly and +progressively efficacious. All that we have a right to +expect from our religion is that gradually, very gradually, it +will assist us to a real victory. After each apparent +defeat, if we are bravely in earnest, we gain something on our +former position. Baruch was two days on his journey back to +town, and as he came nearer home, he recovered himself a +little. Suddenly he remembered the bookshop and the book +for which he had to call, and that he had intended to ask +Marshall something about the bookseller’s new +assistant.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Madge</span> was a puzzle to Mrs +Caffyn. Mrs Caffyn loved her, and when she was ill had +behaved like a mother to her. The newly-born child, a +healthy girl, was treated by Mrs Caffyn as if it were her own +granddaughter, and many little luxuries were bought which never +appeared in Mrs Marshall’s weekly bill. Naturally, +Mrs Caffyn’s affection moved a response from Madge, and Mrs +Caffyn by degrees heard the greater part of her history; but why +she had separated herself from her lover without any apparent +reason remained a mystery, and all the greater was the mystery +because Mrs Caffyn believed that there were no other facts to be +known than those she knew. She longed to bring about a +reconciliation. It was dreadful to her that Madge should be +condemned to poverty, and that her infant should be fatherless, +although there was a gentleman waiting to take them both and make +them happy.</p> +<p>‘The hair won’t be dark like yours, my +love,’ she said one afternoon, soon after Madge had come +downstairs and was lying on the sofa. ‘The hair do +darken a lot, but hers will never be black. It’s my +opinion as it’ll be fair.’</p> +<p>Madge did not speak, and Mrs Caffyn, who was sitting at the +head of the couch, put her work and her spectacles on the +table. It was growing dusk; she took Madge’s hand, +which hung down by her side, and gently lifted it up. Such +a delicate hand, Mrs Caffyn thought. She was proud that she +had for a friend the owner of such a hand, who behaved to her as +an equal. It was delightful to be kissed—no mere +formal salutations—by a lady fit to go into the finest +drawing-room in London, but it was a greater delight that +Madge’s talk suited her better than any she had heard at +Great Oakhurst. It was natural she should rejoice when she +discovered, unconsciously that she had a soul, to which the +speech of the stars, though somewhat strange, was not an utterly +foreign tongue.</p> +<p>She retained her hold on Madge’s hand.</p> +<p>‘May be,’ she continued, ‘it’ll be +like its father’s. In our family all the gals take +after the father, and all the boys after the mother. I +suppose as <i>he</i> has lightish hair?’</p> +<p>Still Madge said nothing.</p> +<p>‘It isn’t easy to believe as the father of that +blessed dear could have been a bad lot. I’m sure he +isn’t, and yet there’s that Polesden gal at the farm, +she as went wrong with Jim, a great ugly brute, and she herself +warnt up to much, well, as I say, her child was the delicatest +little angel as I ever saw. It’s my belief as +God-a-mighty mixes Hisself up in it more nor we think. But +there <i>was</i> nothing amiss with him, was there, my +sweet?’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn inclined her head towards Madge.</p> +<p>‘Oh, no! Nothing, nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you think, my dear, if there’s +nothing atwixt you, as it was a flyin’ in the face of +Providence to turn him off? You were reglarly engaged to +him, and I have heard you say he was very fond of you. I +suppose there were some high words about something, and a kind of +a quarrel like, and so you parted, but that’s +nothing. It might all be made up now, and it ought to be +made up. What was it about?’</p> +<p>‘There was no quarrel.’</p> +<p>‘Well, of course, if you don’t like to say +anything more to me, I won’t ask you. I don’t +want to hear any secrets as I shouldn’t hear. I speak +only because I can’t abear to see you here when I believe +as everything might be put right, and you might have a house of +your own, and a good husband, and be happy for the rest of your +days. It isn’t too late for that now. I know +what I know, and as how he’d marry you at once.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, my dear Mrs Caffyn, I have no secret from you, who +have been so good to me: I can only say I could not love +him—not as I ought.’</p> +<p>‘If you can’t love a man, that’s to say if +you can’t <i>abear</i> him, it’s wrong to have him, +but if there’s a child that does make a difference, for one +has to think of the child and of being respectable. +There’s something in being respectable; although, for that +matter, I’ve see’d respectable people at Great +Oakhurst as were ten times worse than those as +aren’t. Still, a-speaking for myself, I’d put +up with a goodish bit to marry the man whose child wor +mine.’</p> +<p>‘For myself I could, but it wouldn’t be just to +him.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t see what you mean.’</p> +<p>‘I mean that I could sacrifice myself if I believed it +to be my duty, but I should wrong him cruelly if I were to accept +him and did not love him with all my heart.’</p> +<p>‘My dear, you take my word for it, he isn’t so +particklar as you are. A man isn’t so particklar as a +woman. He goes about his work, and has all sorts of things +in his head, and if a woman makes him comfortable when he comes +home, he’s all right. I won’t say as one woman +is much the same as another to a man—leastways to all +men—but still they are <i>not</i> particklar. Maybe, +though, it isn’t quite the same with gentlefolk like +yourself,—but there’s that blessed baby +a-cryin’.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn hastened upstairs, leaving Madge to her +reflections. Once more the old dialectic reappeared. +‘After all,’ she thought, ‘it is, as Clara +said, a question of degree. There are not a thousand +husbands and wives in this great city whose relationship comes +near perfection. If I felt aversion my course would be +clear, but there is no aversion; on the contrary, our affection +for one another is sufficient for a decent household and decent +existence undisturbed by catastrophes. No brighter sunlight +is obtained by others far better than myself. Ought I to +expect a refinement of relationship to which I have no +right? Our claims are always beyond our deserts, and we are +disappointed if our poor, mean, defective natures do not obtain +the homage which belongs to those of ethereal texture. It +will be a life with no enthusiasms nor romance, perhaps, but it +will be tolerable, and what may be called happy, and my child +will be protected and educated. My child! what is there +which I ought to put in the balance against her? If our +sympathy is not complete, I have my own little oratory: I can +keep the candles alight, close the door, and worship there +alone.’</p> +<p>So she mused, and her foes again ranged themselves over +against her. There was nothing to support her but something +veiled, which would not altogether disclose or explain +itself. Nevertheless, in a few minutes, her enemies had +vanished, like a mist before a sudden wind, and she was once more +victorious. Precious and rare are those divine souls, to +whom that which is aërial is substantial, the only true +substance; those for whom a pale vision possesses an authority +they are forced unconditionally to obey.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs Caffyn</span> was unhappy, and made up +her mind that she would talk to Frank herself. She had +learned enough about him from the two sisters, especially from +Clara, to make her believe that, with a very little management, +she could bring him back to Madge. The difficulty was to +see him without his father’s knowledge. At last she +determined to write to him, and she made her son-in-law address +the envelope and mark it private. This is what she +said:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear +Sir</span>,—Although unbeknown to you, I take the liberty +of telling you as M. H. is alivin’ here with me, and +somebody else as I think you ought to see, but perhaps I’d +better have a word or two with you myself, if not quite +ill-convenient to you, and maybe you’ll be kind enough to +say how that’s to be done to your obedient, humble +servant,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">Mrs +Caffyn</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She thought this very diplomatic, inasmuch as nobody but Frank +could possibly suspect what the letter meant. It went to +Stoke Newington, but, alas! he was in Germany, and poor Mrs +Caffyn had to wait a week before she received a reply. +Frank of course understood it. Although he had thought +about Madge continually, he had become calmer. He saw, it +is true, that there was no stability in his position, and that he +could not possibly remain where he was. Had Madge been the +commonest of the common, and his relationship to her the +commonest of the common, he could not permit her to cast herself +loose from him for ever and take upon herself the whole burden of +his misdeed. But he did not know what to do, and, as +successive considerations and reconsiderations ended in nothing, +and the distractions of a foreign country were so numerous, Madge +had for a time been put aside, like a huge bill which we cannot +pay, and which staggers us. We therefore docket it, and +hide it in the desk, and we imagine we have done something. +Once again, however, the flame leapt up out of the ashes, vivid +as ever. Once again the thought that he had been so close +to Madge, and that she had yielded to him, touched him with +peculiar tenderness, and it seemed impossible to part himself +from her. To a man with any of the nobler qualities of man +it is not only a sense of honour which binds him to a woman who +has given him all she has to give. Separation seems +unnatural, monstrous, a divorce from himself; it is not she +alone, but it is himself whom he abandons. Frank’s +duty, too, pointed imperiously to the path he ought to take, duty +to the child as well as to the mother. He determined to go +home, secretly; Mrs Caffyn would not have written if she had not +seen good reason for believing that Madge still belonged to +him. He made up his mind to start the next day, but when +the next day came, instructions to go immediately to Hamburg +arrived from his father. There were rumours of the +insolvency of a house with which Mr Palmer dealt; inquiries were +necessary which could better be made personally, and if these +rumours were correct, as Mr Palmer believed them to be, his +agency must be transferred to some other firm. There was +now no possibility of a journey to England. For a moment he +debated whether, when he was at Hamburg, he could not slip over +to London, but it would be dangerous. Further orders might +come from his father, and the failure to acknowledge them would +lead to evasion, and perhaps to discovery. He must, +therefore, content himself with a written explanation to Mrs +Caffyn why he could not meet her, and there should be one more +effort to make atonement to Madge. This was what went to +Mrs Caffyn, and to her lodger:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear +Madam</span>,—Your note has reached me here. I am +very sorry that my engagements are so pressing that I cannot +leave Germany at present. I have written to Miss +Hopgood. There is one subject which I cannot mention to +her—I cannot speak to her about money. Will you +please give me full information? I enclose £20, and I +must trust to your discretion. I thank you heartily for all +your kindness.—Truly yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">Frank +Palmer</span>.’</p> +<p>‘<span class="smcap">My dearest Madge</span>,—I +cannot help saying one more word to you, although, when I last +saw you, you told me that it was useless for me to hope. I +know, however, that there is now another bond between us, the +child is mine as well as yours, and if I am not all that you +deserve, ought you to prevent me from doing my duty to it as well +as to you? It is true that if we were to marry I could +never right you, and perhaps my father would have nothing to do +with us, but in time he might relent, and I will come over at +once, or, at least, the moment I have settled some business here, +and you shall be my wife. Do, my dearest Madge, +consent.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When he came to this point his pen stopped. What he had +written was very smooth, but very tame and cold. However, +nothing better presented itself; he changed his position, sat +back in his chair, and searched himself, but could find +nothing. It was not always so. Some months ago there +would have been no difficulty, and he would not have known when +to come to an end. The same thing would have been said a +dozen times, perhaps, but it would not have seemed the same to +him, and each succeeding repetition would have been felt with the +force of novelty. He took a scrap of paper and tried to +draft two or three sentences, altered them several times and made +them worse. He then re-read the letter; it was too short; +but after all it contained what was necessary, and it must go as +it stood. She knew how he felt towards her. So he +signed it after giving his address at Hamburg, and it was +posted.</p> +<p>Three or four days afterwards Mrs Marshall, in accordance with +her usual custom, went to see Madge before she was up. The +child lay peacefully by its mother’s side and Frank’s +letter was upon the counterpane. The resolution that no +letter from him should be opened had been broken. The two +women had become great friends and, within the last few weeks, +Madge had compelled Mrs Marshall to call her by her Christian +name.</p> +<p>‘You’ve had a letter from Mr Palmer; I was sure it +was his handwriting when it came late last night.’</p> +<p>‘You can read it; there is nothing private in +it.’</p> +<p>She turned round to the child and Mrs Marshall sat down and +read. When she had finished she laid the letter on the bed +again and was silent.</p> +<p>‘Well?’ said Madge. ‘Would you say +“No?”’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I would.’</p> +<p>‘For your own sake, as well as for his?’</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall took up the letter and read half of it again.</p> +<p>‘Yes, you had better say “No.” You +will find it dull, especially if you have to live in +London.’</p> +<p>‘Did you find London dull when you came to live in +it?’</p> +<p>‘Rather; Marshall is away all day long.’</p> +<p>‘But scarcely any woman in London expects to marry a man +who is not away all day.’</p> +<p>‘They ought then to have heaps of work, or they ought to +have a lot of children to look after; but, perhaps, being born +and bred in the country, I do not know what people in London +are. Recollect you were country born and bred yourself, or, +at anyrate, you have lived in the country for the most of your +life.’</p> +<p>‘Dull! we must all expect to be dull.’</p> +<p>‘There’s nothing worse. I’ve had +rheumatic fever, and I say, give me the fever rather than what +comes over me at times here. If Marshall had not been so +good to me, I do not know what I should have done with +myself.’</p> +<p>Madge turned round and looked Mrs Marshall straight in the +face, but she did not flinch.</p> +<p>‘Marshall is very good to me, but I was glad when mother +and you and your sister came to keep me company when he is not at +home. It tired me to have my meals alone: it is bad for the +digestion; at least, so he says, and he believes that it was +indigestion that was the matter with me. I should be sorry +for myself if you were to go away; not that I want to put that +forward. Maybe I should never see much more of you: he is +rich: you might come here sometimes, but he would not like to +have Marshall and mother and me at his house.’</p> +<p>Not a word was spoken for at least a minute.</p> +<p>Suddenly Mrs Marshall took Madge’s hand in her own +hands, leaned over her, and in that kind of whisper with which we +wake a sleeper who is to be aroused to escape from sudden peril, +she said in her ear,—</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge: for God’s sake leave +him!’</p> +<p>‘I have left him.’</p> +<p>‘Are you sure?’</p> +<p>‘Quite.’</p> +<p>‘For ever?’</p> +<p>‘For ever!’</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall let go Madge’s hand, turned her eyes +towards her intently for a moment, and again bent over her as if +she were about to embrace her. A knock, however, came at +the door, and Mrs Caffyn entered with the cup of coffee which she +always insisted on bringing before Madge rose. After she +and her daughter had left, Madge read the letter once more. +There was nothing new in it, but formally it was something, like +the tolling of the bell when we know that our friend is +dead. There was a little sobbing, and then she kissed her +child with such eagerness that it began to cry.</p> +<p>‘You’ll answer that letter, I suppose?’ said +Mrs Caffyn, when they were alone.</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>‘I’m rather glad. It would worrit you, and +there’s nothing worse for a baby than worritin’ when +it’s mother’s a-feedin it.’</p> +<p>Mr Caffyn wrote as follows:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear +Sir</span>,—I was sorry as you couldn’t come; but I +believe now as it was better as you didn’t. I am no +scollard, and so no more from your obedient, humble servant,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<span class="smcap">Mrs +Caffyn</span>.</p> +<p>‘<i>P.S.</i>—I return the money, having no use for +the same.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Baruch</span> did not obtain any very +definite information from Marshall about Clara. He was told +that she had a sister; that they were both of them gentlewomen; +that their mother and father were dead; that they were great +readers, and that they did not go to church nor chapel, but that +they both went sometimes to hear a certain Mr A. J. Scott +lecture. He was once assistant minister to Irving, but was +now heretical, and had a congregation of his own creating at +Woolwich.</p> +<p>Baruch called at the shop and found Clara once more +alone. The book was packed up and had being lying ready for +him for two or three days. He wanted to speak, but hardly +knew how to begin. He looked idly round the shelves, taking +down one volume after another, and at last he said,—</p> +<p>‘I suppose nobody but myself has ever asked for a copy +of Robinson?’</p> +<p>‘Not since I have been here.’</p> +<p>‘I do not wonder at it; he printed only two hundred and +fifty; he gave away five-and-twenty, and I am sure nearly two +hundred were sold as wastepaper.’</p> +<p>‘He is a friend of yours?’</p> +<p>‘He was a friend; he is dead; he was an usher in a +private school, although you might have supposed, from the title +selected, that he was a clerk. I told him it was useless to +publish, and his publishers told him the same thing.’</p> +<p>‘I should have thought that some notice would have been +taken of him; he is so evidently worth it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but although he was original and reflective, he +had no particular talent. His excellence lay in criticism +and observation, often profound, on what came to him every day, +and he was valueless in the literary market. A talent of +some kind is necessary to genius if it is to be heard. So +he died utterly unrecognised, save by one or two personal friends +who loved him dearly. He was peculiar in the depth and +intimacy of his friendships. Few men understand the meaning +of the word friendship. They consort with certain +companions and perhaps very earnestly admire them, because they +possess intellectual gifts, but of friendship, such as we two, +Morris and I (for that was his real name) understood it, they +know nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Do you believe, that the good does not necessarily +survive?’</p> +<p>‘Yes and no; I believe that power every moment, so far +as our eyes can follow it, is utterly lost. I have had one +or two friends whom the world has never known and never will +know, who have more in them than is to be found in many an +English classic. I could take you to a little dissenting +chapel not very far from Holborn where you would hear a young +Welshman, with no education beyond that provided by a Welsh +denominational college, who is a perfect orator and whose depth +of insight is hardly to be matched, save by Thomas À +Kempis, whom he much resembles. When he dies he will be +forgotten in a dozen years. Besides, it is surely plain +enough to everybody that there are thousands of men and women +within a mile of us, apathetic and obscure, who, if, an object +worthy of them had been presented to them, would have shown +themselves capable of enthusiasm and heroism. Huge volumes +of human energy are apparently annihilated.’</p> +<p>‘It is very shocking, worse to me than the thought of +the earthquake or the pestilence.’</p> +<p>‘I said “yes and no” and there is another +side. The universe is so wonderful, so intricate, that it +is impossible to trace the transformation of its forces, and when +they seem to disappear the disappearance may be an +illusion. Moreover, “waste” is a word which is +applicable only to finite resources. If the resources are +infinite it has no meaning.’</p> +<p>Two customers came in and Baruch was obliged to leave. +When he came to reflect, he was surprised to find not only how +much he had said, but what he had said. He was usually +reserved, and with strangers he adhered to the weather or to +passing events. He had spoken, however, to this young woman +as if they had been acquainted for years. Clara, too, was +surprised. She always cut short attempts at conversation in +the shop. Frequently she answered questions and receipted +and returned bills without looking in the faces of the people who +spoke to her or offered her the money. But to this +foreigner, or Jew, she had disclosed something she felt. +She was rather abashed, but presently her employer, Mr Barnes, +returned and somewhat relieved her.</p> +<p>‘The gentleman who bought <i>After Office Hours</i> came +for it while you were out?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! what, Cohen? Good fellow Cohen is; he it was +who recommended you to me. He is brother-in-law to your +landlord.’ Clara was comforted; he was not a mere +‘casual,’ as Mr Barnes called his chance +customers.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">About</span> a fortnight afterwards, on a +Sunday afternoon, Cohen went to the Marshalls’. He +had called there once or twice since his mother-in-law came to +London, but had seen nothing of the lodgers. It was just +about tea-time, but unfortunately Marshall and his wife had gone +out. Mrs Caffyn insisted that Cohen should stay, but Madge +could not be persuaded to come downstairs, and Baruch, Mrs Caffyn +and Clara had tea by themselves. Baruch asked Mrs Caffyn if +she could endure London after living for so long in the +country.</p> +<p>‘Ah! my dear boy, I have to like it.’</p> +<p>‘No, you haven’t; what you mean is that, whether +you like it, or whether you do not, you have to put up with +it.’</p> +<p>‘No, I don’t mean that. Miss Hopgood, Cohen +and me, we are the best of friends, but whenever he comes here, +he allus begins to argue with me. Howsomever, arguing +isn’t everything, is it, my dear? There’s some +things, after all, as I can do and he can’t, but he’s +just wrong here in his arguing that wasn’t what I +meant. I meant what I said, as I had to like it.’</p> +<p>‘How can you like it if you don’t?’</p> +<p>‘How can I? That shows you’re a man and not +a woman. Jess like you men. <i>You’d</i> do +what you didn’t like, I know, for you’re a good +sort—and everybody would know you didn’t like +it—but what would be the use of me a-livin’ in a +house if I didn’t like it?—with my daughter and these +dear, young women? If it comes to livin’, you’d +ten thousand times better say at once as you hate bein’ +where you are than go about all day long, as if you was a blessed +saint and put upon.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn twitched at her gown and pulled it down over her +knees and brushed the crumbs off with energy. She +continued, ‘I can’t abide people who +everlastin’ make believe they are put upon. Suppose I +were allus a-hankering every foggy day after Great Oakhurst, and +yet a-tellin’ my daughter as I knew my place was here; if I +was she, I should wish my mother at Jericho.’</p> +<p>‘Then you really prefer London to Great Oakhurst?’ +said Clara.</p> +<p>‘Why, my dear, of course I do. Don’t you +think it’s pleasanter being here with you and your sister +and that precious little creature, and my daughter, than down in +that dead-alive place? Not that I don’t miss my walk +sometimes into Darkin; you remember that way as I took you once, +Baruch, across the hill, and we went over Ranmore Common and I +showed you Camilla Lacy, and you said as you knew a woman who +wrote books who once lived there? You remember them +beech-woods? Ah, it was one October! Weren’t +they a colour—weren’t they lovely?’</p> +<p>Baruch remembered them well enough. Who that had ever +seen them could forget them?</p> +<p>‘And it was I as took you! You wouldn’t +think it, my dear, though he’s always a-arguin’, I do +believe he’d love to go that walk again, even with an old +woman, and see them heavenly beeches. But, Lord, how I do +talk, and you’ve neither of you got any tea.’</p> +<p>‘Have you lived long in London, Miss Hopgood?’ +inquired Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Not very long.’</p> +<p>‘Do you feel the change?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say I do not.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose, however, you have brought yourself to +believe in Mrs Caffyn’s philosophy?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say that, but I may say that I am scarcely +strong enough for mere endurance, and I therefore always +endeavour to find something agreeable in circumstances from which +there is no escape.’</p> +<p>The recognition of the One in the Many had as great a charm +for Baruch as it had for Socrates, and Clara spoke with the ease +of a person whose habit it was to deal with principles and +generalisations.</p> +<p>‘Yes, and mere toleration, to say nothing of opposition, +at least so far as persons are concerned, is seldom +necessary. It is generally thought that what is called +dramatic power is a poetic gift, but it is really an +indispensable virtue to all of us if we are to be +happy.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn did not take much interest in abstract +statements. ‘You remember,’ she said, turning +to Baruch, ‘that man Chorley as has the big farm on the +left-hand side just afore you come to the common? He +wasn’t a Surrey man: he came out of the shires.’</p> +<p>‘Very well.’</p> +<p>‘He’s married that Skelton girl; married her the +week afore I left. There isn’t no love lost there, +but the girl’s father said he’d murder him if he +didn’t, and so it come off. How she ever brought +herself to it gets over me. She has that big farm-house, +and he’s made a fine drawing-room out of the livin’ +room on the left-hand side as you go in, and put a new grate in +the kitchen and turned that into the livin’ room, and they +does the cooking in the back kitchen, but for all that, if +I’d been her, I’d never have seen his face no more, +and I’d have packed off to Australia.’</p> +<p>‘Does anybody go near them?’</p> +<p>‘Near them! of course they do, and, as true as I’m +a-sittin’ here, our parson, who married them, went to the +breakfast. It isn’t Chorley as I blame so much; +he’s a poor, snivellin’ creature, and he was +frightened, but it’s the girl. She doesn’t care +for him no more than me, and then again, although, as I tell you, +he’s such a poor creature, he’s awful cruel and mean, +and she knows it. But what was I a-goin’ to +say? Never shall I forget that wedding. You know as +it’s a short cut to the church across the farmyard at the +back of my house. The parson, he was rather late—I +suppose he’d been giving himself a finishin’ +touch—and, as it had been very dry weather, he went across +the straw and stuff just at the edge like of the yard. +There was a pig under the straw—pigs, my dear,’ +turning to Clara, ‘nuzzle under the straw so as you +can’t see them. Just as he came to this pig it +started up and upset him, and he fell and straddled across its +back, and the Lord have mercy on me if it didn’t carry him +at an awful rate, as if he was a jockey at Epsom races, till it +come to a puddle of dung water, and then down he plumped in +it. You never see’d a man in such a pickle! I +heer’d the pig a-squeakin’ like mad, and I ran to the +door, and I called out to him, and I says, “Mr Ormiston, +won’t you come in here?” and though, as you know, he +allus hated me, he had to come. Mussy on us, how he did +stink, and he saw me turn up my nose, and he was wild with rage, +and he called the pig a filthy beast. I says to him as that +was the pig’s way and the pig didn’t know who it was +who was a-ridin’ it, and I took his coat off and wiped his +stockings, and sent to the rectory for another coat, and he crept +up under the hedge to his garden, and went home, and the people +at church had to wait for an hour. I was glad I was +goin’ away from Great Oakhurst, for he never would have +forgiven me.’</p> +<p>There was a ring at the front door bell, and Clara went to see +who was there. It was a runaway ring, but she took the +opportunity of going upstairs to Madge.</p> +<p>‘She has a sister?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Yes, and I may just as well tell you about her +now—leastways what I know—and I believe as I know +pretty near everything about her. You’ll have to be +told if they stay here. She was engaged to be married, and +how it came about with a girl like that is a bit beyond me, +anyhow, there’s a child, and the father’s a good sort +by what I can make out, but she won’t have anything more to +do with him.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean by “a girl like +that.”’</p> +<p>‘She isn’t one of them as goes wrong; she can talk +German and reads books.’</p> +<p>‘Did he desert her?’</p> +<p>‘No, that’s just it. She loves me, although +I say it, as if I was her mother, and yet I’m just as much +in the dark as I was the first day I saw her as to why she left +that man.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron.</p> +<p>‘It’s gospel truth as I never took to anybody as +I’ve took to her.’</p> +<p>After Baruch had gone, Clara returned.</p> +<p>‘He’s a curious creature, my dear,’ said Mrs +Caffyn, ‘as good as gold, but he’s too solemn by +half. It would do him a world of good if he’d +somebody with him who’d make him laugh more. He +<i>can</i> laugh, for I’ve seen him forced to get up and +hold his sides, but he never makes no noise. He’s a +Jew, and they say as them as crucified our blessed Lord never +laugh proper.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Baruch</span> was now in love. He +had fallen in love with Clara suddenly and totally. His +tendency to reflectiveness did not diminish his passion: it +rather augmented it. The men and women whose thoughts are +here and there continually are not the people to feel the full +force of love. Those who do feel it are those who are +accustomed to think of one thing at a time, and to think upon it +for a long time. ‘No man,’ said Baruch once, +‘can love a woman unless he loves God.’ +‘I should say,’ smilingly replied the Gentile, +‘that no man can love God unless he loves a +woman.’ ‘I am right,’ said Baruch, +‘and so are you.’</p> +<p>But Baruch looked in the glass: his hair, jet black when he +was a youth, was marked with grey, and once more the thought came +to him—this time with peculiar force—that he could +not now expect a woman to love him as she had a right to demand +that he should love, and that he must be silent. He was +obliged to call upon Barnes in about a fortnight’s +time. He still read Hebrew, and he had seen in the shop a +copy of the Hebrew translation of the <i>Moreh Nevochim</i> of +Maimonides, which he greatly coveted, but could not afford to +buy. Like every true book-lover, he could not make up his +mind when he wished for a book which was beyond his means that he +ought once for all to renounce it, and he was guilty of +subterfuges quite unworthy of such a reasonable creature in order +to delude himself into the belief that he might yield. For +example, he wanted a new overcoat badly, but determined it was +more prudent to wait, and a week afterwards very nearly came to +the conclusion that as he had not ordered the coat he had +actually accumulated a fund from which the <i>Moreh Nevochim</i> +might be purchased. When he came to the shop he saw Barnes +was there, and he persuaded himself he should have a quieter +moment or two with the precious volume when Clara was +alone. Barnes, of course, gossiped with everybody.</p> +<p>He therefore called again in the evening, about half an hour +before closing time, and found that Barnes had gone home. +Clara was busy with a catalogue, the proof of which she was +particularly anxious to send to the printer that night. He +did not disturb her, but took down the Maimonides, and for a few +moments was lost in revolving the doctrine, afterwards repeated +and proved by a greater than Maimonides, that the will and power +of God are co-extensive: that there is nothing which might be and +is not. It was familiar to Baruch, but like all ideas of +that quality and magnitude—and there are not many of +them—it was always new and affected him like a starry +night, seen hundreds of times, yet for ever infinite and +original.</p> +<p>But was it Maimonides which kept him till the porter began to +put up the shutters? Was he pondering exclusively upon God +as the folio lay open before him? He did think about Him, +but whether he would have thought about Him for nearly twenty +minutes if Clara had not been there is another matter.</p> +<p>‘Do you walk home alone?’ he said as she gave the +proof to the boy who stood waiting.</p> +<p>‘Yes, always.’</p> +<p>‘I am going to see Marshall to-night, but I must go to +Newman Street first. I shall be glad to walk with you, if +you do not mind diverging a little.’</p> +<p>She consented and they went along Oxford Street without +speaking, the roar of the carriages and waggons preventing a +word.</p> +<p>They turned, however, into Bloomsbury, and were able to hear +one another. He had much to say and he could not begin to +say it. There was a great mass of something to be +communicated pent up within him, and he would have liked to pour +it all out before her at once. It is just at such times +that we often take up as a means of expression and relief that +which is absurdly inexpressive and irrelevant.</p> +<p>‘I have not seen your sister yet; I hope I may see her +this evening.’</p> +<p>‘I hope you may, but she frequently suffers from +headache and prefers to be alone.’</p> +<p>‘How do you like Mr Barnes?’</p> +<p>The answer is not worth recording, nor is any question or +answer which was asked or returned for the next quarter of an +hour worth recording, although they were so interesting +then. When they were crossing Bedford Square on their +return Clara happened to say amongst other +commonplaces,—</p> +<p>‘What a relief a quiet space in London is.’</p> +<p>‘I do not mind the crowd if I am by myself.’</p> +<p>‘I do not like crowds; I dislike even the word, and +dislike “the masses” still more. I do not want +to think of human beings as if they were a cloud of dust, and as +if each atom had no separate importance. London is often +horrible to me for that reason. In the country it was not +quite so bad.’</p> +<p>‘That is an illusion,’ said Baruch after a +moment’s pause.</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand you, but if it be an illusion +it is very painful. In London human beings seem the +commonest, cheapest things in the world, and I am one of +them. I went with Mr Marshall not long ago to a Free Trade +Meeting, and more than two thousand people were present. +Everybody told me it was magnificent, but it made me very +sad.’ She was going on, but she stopped. How +was it, she thought again, that she could be so +communicative? How was it? How is it that sometimes a +stranger crosses our path, with whom, before we have known him +for more than an hour, we have no secrets? An hour? we have +actually known him for centuries.</p> +<p>She could not understand it, and she felt as if she had been +inconsistent with her constant professions of wariness in +self-revelation.</p> +<p>‘It is an illusion, nevertheless—an illusion of +the senses. It is difficult to make what I mean clear, +because insight is not possible beyond a certain point, and +clearness does not come until penetration is complete and what we +acquire is brought into a line with other acquisitions. It +constantly happens that we are arrested short of this point, but +it would be wrong to suppose that our conclusions, if we may call +them so, are of no value.’</p> +<p>She was silent, and he did not go on. At last he +said,—</p> +<p>‘The illusion lies in supposing that number, quantity +and terms of that kind are applicable to any other than sensuous +objects, but I cannot go further, at least not now. After +all, it is possible here in London for one atom to be of eternal +importance to another.’</p> +<p>They had gone quite round Bedford Square without entering +Great Russell Street, which was the way eastwards. A +drunken man was holding on by the railings of the Square. +He had apparently been hesitating for some time whether he could +reach the road, and, just as Baruch and Clara came up to him, he +made a lurch towards it, and nearly fell over them. Clara +instinctively seized Baruch’s arm in order to avoid the +poor, staggering mortal; they went once more to the right, and +began to complete another circuit. Somehow her arm had been +drawn into Baruch’s, and there it remained.</p> +<p>‘Have you any friends in London?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘There are Mrs Caffyn, her son and daughter, and there +is Mr A. J. Scott. He was a friend of my father.’</p> +<p>‘You mean the Mr Scott who was Irving’s +assistant?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘An addition—’ he was about to say, +‘an additional bond’ but he corrected himself. +‘A bond between us; I know Mr Scott.’</p> +<p>‘Do you really? I suppose you know many +interesting people in London, as you are in his +circle.’</p> +<p>‘Very few; weeks, months have passed since anybody has +said as much to me as you have.’</p> +<p>His voice quivered a little, for he was trembling with an +emotion quite inexplicable by mere intellectual +relationship. Something came through Clara’s glove as +her hand rested on his wrist which ran through every nerve and +sent the blood into his head.</p> +<p>Clara felt his excitement and dreaded lest he should say +something to which she could give no answer, and when they came +opposite Great Russell Street, she withdrew her arm from his, and +began to cross to the opposite pavement. She turned the +conversation towards some indifferent subject, and in a few +minutes they were at Great Ormond Street. Baruch would not +go in as he had intended; he thought it was about to rain, and he +was late. As he went along he became calmer, and when he +was fairly indoors he had passed into a despair entirely +inconsistent—superficially—with the philosopher +Baruch, as inconsistent as the irrational behaviour in Bedford +Square. He could well enough interpret, so he believed, +Miss Hopgood’s suppression of him. Ass that he was +not to see what he ought to have known so well, that he was +playing the fool to her; he, with a grown-up son, to pretend to +romance with a girl! At that moment she might be mocking +him, or, if she was too good for mockery, she might be contriving +to avoid or to quench him. The next time he met her, he +would be made to understand that he was <i>pitied</i>, and +perhaps he would then learn the name of the youth who was his +rival, and had won her. He would often meet her, no doubt, +but of what value would anything he could say be to her. +She could not be expected to make fine distinctions, and there +was a class of elderly men, to which of course he would be +assigned, but the thought was too horrible.</p> +<p>Perhaps his love for Clara might be genuine; perhaps it was +not. He had hoped that as he grew older he might be able +really to <i>see</i> a woman, but he was once more like one of +the possessed. It was not Clara Hopgood who was before him, +it was hair, lips, eyes, just as it was twenty years ago, just as +it was with the commonest shop-boy he met, who had escaped from +the counter, and was waiting at an area gate. It was +terrible to him to find that he had so nearly lost his +self-control, but upon this point he was unjust to himself, for +we are often more distinctly aware of the strength of the +temptation than of the authority within us, which falteringly, +but decisively, enables us at last to resist it.</p> +<p>Then he fell to meditating how little his studies had done for +him. What was the use of them? They had not made him +any stronger, and he was no better able than other people to +resist temptation. After twenty years continuous labour he +found himself capable of the vulgarest, coarsest faults and +failings from which the remotest skiey influence in his begetting +might have saved him.</p> +<p>Clara was not as Baruch. No such storm as that which had +darkened and disheartened him could pass over her, but she could +love, perhaps better than he, and she began to love him. It +was very natural to a woman such as Clara, for she had met a man +who had said to her that what she believed was really of some +worth. Her father and mother had been very dear to her; her +sister was very dear to her, but she had never received any such +recognition as that which had now been offered to her: her own +self had never been returned to her with such honour. She +thought, too—why should she not think it?—of the +future, of the release from her dreary occupation, of a happy +home with independence, and she thought of the children that +might be. She lay down without any misgiving. She was +sure he was in love with her; she did not know much of him, +certainly, in the usual meaning of the word, but she knew +enough. She would like to find out more of his history; +perhaps without exciting suspicion she might obtain it from Mrs +Caffyn.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr Frank Palmer</span> was back again in +England. He was much distressed when he received that last +letter from Mrs Caffyn, and discovered that Madge’s +resolution not to write remained unshaken. He was really +distressed, but he was not the man upon whom an event, however +deeply felt at the time, could score a furrow which could not be +obliterated. If he had been a dramatic personage, what had +happened to him would have been the second act leading to a +fifth, in which the Fates would have appeared, but life seldom +arranges itself in proper poetic form. A man determines +that he must marry; he makes the shop-girl an allowance, never +sees her or her child again, transforms himself into a model +husband, is beloved by his wife and family; the woman whom he +kissed as he will never kiss his lawful partner, withdraws +completely, and nothing happens to him.</p> +<p>Frank was sure he could never love anybody as he had loved +Madge, nor could he cut indifferently that other cord which bound +him to her. Nobody in society expects the same paternal +love for the offspring of a housemaid or a sempstress as for the +child of the stockbroker’s or brewer’s daughter, and +nobody expects the same obligations, but Frank was not a society +youth, and Madge was his equal. A score of times, when his +fancy roved, the rope checked him as suddenly as if it were the +lasso of a South American Gaucho. But what could he do? +that was the point. There were one or two things which he +could have done, perhaps, and one or two things which he could +not have done if he had been made of different stuff; but there +was nothing more to be done which Frank Palmer could do. +After all, it was better that Madge should be the child’s +mother than that it should belong to some peasant. At least +it would be properly educated. As to money, Mrs Caffyn had +told him expressly that she did not want it. That might be +nothing but pride, and he resolved, without very clearly seeing +how, and without troubling himself for the moment as to details, +that Madge should be entirely and handsomely supported by +him. Meanwhile it was of great importance that he should +behave in such a manner as to raise no suspicion. He did +not particularly care for some time after his return from Germany +to go out to the musical parties to which he was constantly +invited, but he went as a duty, and wherever he went he met his +charming cousin. They always sang together; they had easy +opportunities of practising together, and Frank, although nothing +definite was said to him, soon found that his family and hers +considered him destined for her. He could not retreat, and +there was no surprise manifested by anybody when it was rumoured +that they were engaged. His story may as well be finished +at once. He and Miss Cecilia Morland were married. A +few days before the wedding, when some legal arrangements and +settlements were necessary, Frank made one last effort to secure +an income for Madge, but it failed. Mrs Caffyn met him by +appointment, but he could not persuade her even to be the bearer +of a message to Madge. He then determined to confess his +fears. To his great relief Mrs Caffyn of her own accord +assured him that he never need dread any disturbance or +betrayal.</p> +<p>‘There are three of us,’ she said, ‘as knows +you—Miss Madge, Miss Clara and myself—and, as far as +you are concerned, we are dead and buried. I can’t +say as I was altogether of Miss Madge’s way of looking at +it at first, and I thought it ought to have been different, +though I believe now as she’s right, but,’ and the +old woman suddenly fired up as if some bolt from heaven had +kindled her, ‘I pity you, sir—you, sir, I +say—more nor I do her. You little know what +you’ve lost, the blessedest, sweetest, ah, and the +cleverest creature, too, as ever I set eyes on.’</p> +<p>‘But, Mrs Caffyn,’ said Frank, with much emotion, +‘it was not I who left her, you know it was not, and, and +even—’</p> +<p>The word ‘now’ was coming, but it did not +come.</p> +<p>‘Ah,’ said Mrs Caffyn, with something like scorn, +‘<i>I</i> know, yes, I do know. It was she, you +needn’t tell me that, but, God-a-mighty in heaven, if +I’d been you, I’d have laid myself on the ground +afore her, I’d have tore my heart out for her, and +I’d have said, “No other woman in this world but +you”—but there, what a fool I am! Goodbye, Mr +Palmer.’</p> +<p>She marched away, leaving Frank very miserable, and, as he +imagined, unsettled, but he was not so. The fit lasted all +day, but when he was walking home that evening, he met a poor +friend whose wife was dying.</p> +<p>‘I am so grieved,’ said Frank ‘to hear of +your trouble—no hope?’</p> +<p>‘None, I am afraid.’</p> +<p>‘It is very dreadful.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is hard to bear, but to what is inevitable we +must submit.’</p> +<p>This new phrase struck Frank very much, and it seemed very +philosophic to him, a maxim, for guidance through life. It +did not strike him that it was generally either a platitude or an +excuse for weakness, and that a nobler duty is to find out what +is inevitable and what is not, to declare boldly that what the +world oftentimes affirms to be inevitable is really evitable, and +heroically to set about making it so. Even if revolt be +perfectly useless, we are not particularly drawn to a man who +prostrates himself too soon and is incapable of a little +cursing.</p> +<p>As it was impossible to provide for Madge and the child now, +Frank considered whether he could not do something for them in +the will which he had to make before his marriage. He might +help his daughter if he could not help the mother.</p> +<p>But his wife would perhaps survive him, and the discovery +would cause her and her children much misery; it would damage his +character with them and inflict positive moral mischief. +The will, therefore, did not mention Madge, and it was not +necessary to tell his secret to his solicitor.</p> +<p>The wedding took place amidst much rejoicing; everybody +thought the couple were most delightfully matched; the presents +were magnificent; the happy pair went to Switzerland, came back +and settled in one of the smaller of the old, red brick houses in +Stoke Newington, with a lawn in front, always shaved and trimmed +to the last degree of smoothness and accuracy, with paths on +whose gravel not the smallest weed was ever seen, and with a +hot-house that provided the most luscious black grapes. +There was a grand piano in the drawing-room, and Frank and +Cecilia became more musical than ever, and Waltham Lodge was the +headquarters of a little amateur orchestra which practised Mozart +and Haydn, and gave local concerts. A twelvemonth after the +marriage a son was born and Frank’s father increased +Frank’s share in the business. Mr Palmer had long +ceased to take any interest in the Hopgoods. He considered +that Madge had treated Frank shamefully in jilting him, but was +convinced that he was fortunate in his escape. It was clear +that she was unstable; she probably threw him overboard for +somebody more attractive, and she was not the woman to be a wife +to his son.</p> +<p>One day Cecilia was turning out some drawers belonging to her +husband, and she found a dainty little slipper wrapped up in +white tissue paper. She looked at it for a long time, +wondering to whom it could have belonged, and had half a mind to +announce her discovery to Frank, but she was a wise woman and +forbore. It lay underneath some neckties which were not now +worn, two or three silk pocket handkerchiefs also discarded, and +some manuscript books containing school themes. She placed +them on the top of the drawers as if they had all been taken out +in a lump and the slipper was at the bottom.</p> +<p>‘Frank my dear,’ she said after dinner, ‘I +emptied this morning one of the drawers in the attic. I +wish you would look over the things and decide what you wish to +keep. I have not examined them, but they seem to be mostly +rubbish.’</p> +<p>He went upstairs after he had smoked his cigar and read his +paper. There was the slipper! It all came back to +him, that never-to-be-forgotten night, when she rebuked him for +the folly of kissing her foot, and he begged the slipper and +determined to preserve it for ever, and thought how delightful it +would be to take it out and look at it when he was an old +man. Even now he did not like to destroy it, but Cecilia +might have seen it and might ask him what he had done with it, +and what could he say? Finally he decided to burn it. +There was no fire, however, in the room, and while he stood +meditating, Cecilia called him. He replaced the slipper in +the drawer. He could not return that evening, but he +intended to go back the next morning, take the little parcel away +in his pocket and burn it at his office. At breakfast some +letters came which put everything else out of mind. The +first thing he did that evening was to revisit the garret, but +the slipper had gone. Cecilia had been there and had found +it carefully folded up in the drawer. She pulled it out, +snipped and tore it into fifty pieces, carried them downstairs, +threw them on the dining-room fire, sat down before it, poking +them further and further into the flames, and watched them till +every vestige had vanished. Frank did not like to make any +inquiries; Cecilia made none, and thence-forward no trace existed +at Waltham Lodge of Madge Hopgood.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Baruch</span> went neither to +Barnes’s shop nor to the Marshalls for nearly a +month. One Sunday morning he was poring over the <i>Moreh +Nevochim</i>, for it had proved too powerful a temptation for +him, and he fell upon the theorem that without God the Universe +could not continue to exist, for God is its Form. It was +one of those sayings which may be nothing or much to the +reader. Whether it be nothing or much depends upon the +quality of his mind.</p> +<p>There was certainly nothing in it particularly adapted to +Baruch’s condition at that moment, but an antidote may be +none the less efficacious because it is not direct. It +removed him to another region. It was like the sight and +sound of the sea to the man who has been in trouble in an inland +city. His self-confidence was restored, for he to whom an +idea is revealed becomes the idea, and is no longer personal and +consequently poor.</p> +<p>His room seemed too small for him; he shut his book and went +to Great Ormond Street. He found there Marshall, Mrs +Caffyn, Clara and a friend of Marshall’s named Dennis.</p> +<p>‘Where is your wife?’ said Baruch to Marshall.</p> +<p>‘Gone with Miss Madge to the Catholic chapel to hear a +mass of Mozart’s.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs Caffyn. ‘I tell them +they’ll turn Papists if they do not mind. They are +always going to that place, and there’s no knowing, so +I’ve hear’d, what them priests can do. They +aren’t like our parsons. Catch that man at Great +Oakhurst a-turnin’ anybody.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose,’ said Baruch to Clara, ‘it is +the music takes your sister there?’</p> +<p>‘Mainly, I believe, but perhaps not entirely.’</p> +<p>‘What other attraction can there be?’</p> +<p>‘I am not in the least disposed to become a +convert. Once for all, Catholicism is incredible and that +is sufficient, but there is much in its ritual which suits +me. There is no such intrusion of the person of the +minister as there is in the Church of England, and still worse +amongst dissenters. In the Catholic service the priest is +nothing; it is his office which is everything; he is a mere means +of communication. The mass, in so far as it proclaims that +miracle is not dead, is also very impressive to me.’</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand you,’ said Marshall, +‘but if you once chuck your reason overboard, you may just +as well be Catholic as Protestant. Nothing can be more +ridiculous than the Protestant objection, on the ground of +absurdity, to the story of the saint walking about with his head +under his arm.’</p> +<p>The tea things had been cleared away, and Marshall was +smoking. Both he and Dennis were Chartists, and Baruch had +interrupted a debate upon a speech delivered at a Chartist +meeting that morning by Henry Vincent.</p> +<p>Frederick Dennis was about thirty, tall and rather +loose-limbed. He wore loose clothes, his neck-cloth was +tied in a big, loose knot, his feet were large and his boots were +heavy. His face was quite smooth, and his hair, which was +very thick and light brown, fell across his forehead in a heavy +wave with just two complete undulations in it from the parting at +the side to the opposite ear. It had a trick of tumbling +over his eyes, so that his fingers were continually passed +through it to brush it away. He was a wood engraver, or, as +he preferred to call himself, an artist, but he also wrote for +the newspapers, and had been a contributor to the <i>Northern +Star</i>. He was well brought up and was intended for the +University, but he did not stick to his Latin and Greek, and as +he showed some talent for drawing he was permitted to follow his +bent. His work, however, was not of first-rate quality, and +consequently orders were not abundant. This was the reason +why he had turned to literature. When he had any books to +illustrate he lived upon what they brought him, and when there +were no books he renewed his acquaintance with politics. If +books and newspapers both failed, he subsisted on a little money +which had been left him, stayed with friends as long as he could, +and amused himself by writing verses which showed much command +over rhyme.</p> +<p>‘I cannot stand Vincent,’ said Marshall, ‘he +is too flowery for me, and he does not belong to the +people. He is middle-class to the backbone.’</p> +<p>‘He is deficient in ideas,’ said Dennis.</p> +<p>‘It is odd,’ continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, +‘that your race never takes any interest in +politics.’</p> +<p>‘My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no +national home. It took an interest in politics when it was +in its own country, and produced some rather remarkable political +writing.’</p> +<p>‘But why do you care so little for what is going on +now?’</p> +<p>‘I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, +and, furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish +all you expect.’</p> +<p>‘I know what is coming’—Marshall took the +pipe out of his mouth and spoke with perceptible +sarcasm—‘the inefficiency of merely external +remedies, the folly of any attempt at improvement which does not +begin with the improvement of individual character, and that +those to whom we intend to give power are no better than those +from whom we intend to take it away. All very well, Mr +Cohen. My answer is that at the present moment the +stockingers in Leicester are earning four shillings and sixpence +a week. It is not a question whether they are better or +worse than their rulers. They want something to eat, they +have nothing, and their masters have more than they can +eat.’</p> +<p>‘Apart altogether from purely material reasons,’ +said Dennis, ‘we have rights; we are born into this planet +without our consent, and, therefore, we may make certain +demands.’</p> +<p>‘Do you not think,’ said Clara, ‘that the +repeal of the corn laws will help you?’</p> +<p>Dennis smiled and was about to reply, but Marshall broke out +savagely,—</p> +<p>‘Repeal of the corn laws is a contemptible device of +manufacturing selfishness. It means low wages. Do you +suppose the great Manchester cotton lords care one straw for +their hands? Not they! They will face a revolution +for repeal because it will enable them to grind an extra profit +out of us.’</p> +<p>‘I agree with you entirely,’ said Dennis, turning +to Clara, ‘that a tax upon food is wrong; it is wrong in +the abstract. The notion of taxing bread, the fruit of the +earth, is most repulsive; but the point is—what is our +policy to be? If a certain end is to be achieved, we must +neglect subordinate ends, and, at times, even contradict what our +own principles would appear to dictate. That is the secret +of successful leadership.’</p> +<p>He took up the poker and stirred the fire.</p> +<p>‘That will do, Dennis,’ said Marshall, who was +evidently fidgety. ‘The room is rather warm. +There’s nothing in Vincent which irritates me more than +those bits of poetry with which he winds up.</p> +<blockquote><p>“God made the man—man made the +slave,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and all that stuff. If God made the man, God made the +slave. I know what Vincent’s little game is, and it +is the same game with all his set. They want to keep +Chartism religious, but we shall see. Let us once get the +six points, and the Established Church will go, and we shall have +secular education, and in a generation there will not be one +superstition left.’</p> +<p>‘Theological superstition, you mean?’ said +Clara.</p> +<p>‘Yes, of course, what others are there worth +notice?’</p> +<p>‘A few. The superstition of the ordinary newspaper +reader is just as profound, and the tyranny of the majority may +be just as injurious as the superstition of a Spanish peasant, or +the tyranny of the Inquisition.’</p> +<p>‘Newspapers will not burn people as the priests did and +would do again if they had the power, and they do not insult us +with fables and a hell and a heaven.’</p> +<p>‘I maintain,’ said Clara with emphasis, +‘that if a man declines to examine, and takes for granted +what a party leader or a newspaper tells him, he has no case +against the man who declines to examine, or takes for granted +what the priest tells him. Besides, although, as you know, +I am not a convert myself, I do lose a little patience when I +hear it preached as a gospel to every poor conceited creature who +goes to your Sunday evening atheist lecture, that he is to +believe nothing on one particular subject which his own precious +intellect cannot verify, and the next morning he finds it to be +his duty to swallow wholesale anything you please to put into his +mouth. As to the tyranny, the day may come, and I believe +is approaching, when the majority will be found to be more +dangerous than any ecclesiastical establishment which ever +existed.’</p> +<p>Baruch’s lips moved, but he was silent. He was not +strong in argument. He was thinking about Marshall’s +triumphant inquiry whether God is not responsible for +slavery. He would have liked to say something on that +subject, but he had nothing ready.</p> +<p>‘Practical people,’ said Dennis, who had not quite +recovered from the rebuke as to the warmth of the room, +‘are often most unpractical and injudicious. Nothing +can be more unwise than to mix up politics and religion. If +you <i>do</i>,’ Dennis waved his hand, ‘you will have +all the religious people against you. My friend Marshall, +Miss Hopgood, is under the illusion that the Church in this +country is tottering to its fall. Now, although I myself +belong to no sect, I do not share his illusion; nay, more, I am +not sure’—Mr Dennis spoke slowly, rubbed his chin and +looked up at the ceiling—‘I am not sure that there is +not something to be said in favour of State endowment—at +least, in a country like Ireland.’</p> +<p>‘Come along, Dennis, we shall be late,’ said +Marshall, and the two forthwith took their departure in order to +attend another meeting.</p> +<p>‘Much either of ’em knows about it,’ said +Mrs Caffyn when they had gone. ‘There’s +Marshall getting two pounds a week reg’lar, and goes on +talking about people at Leicester, and he has never been in +Leicester in his life; and, as for that Dennis, he knows less +than Marshall, for he does nothing but write for newspapers and +draw for picture-books, never nothing what you may call work, and +he does worrit me so whenever he begins about poor people that I +can’t sit still. <i>I</i> do know what the poor is, +having lived at Great Oakhurst all these years.’</p> +<p>‘You are not a Chartist, then?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Me—me a Chartist? No, I ain’t, and +yet, maybe, I’m something worse. What would be the +use of giving them poor creatures votes? Why, there +isn’t one of them as wouldn’t hold up his hand for +anybody as would give him a shilling. Quite right of +’em, too, for the one thing they have to think about from +morning to night is how to get a bit of something to fill their +bellies, and they won’t fill them by voting.’</p> +<p>‘But what would you do for them?’</p> +<p>‘Ah! that beats me! Hang somebody, but I +don’t know who it ought to be. There’s a family +by the name of Longwood, they live just on the slope of the hill +nigh the Dower Farm, and there’s nine of them, and the +youngest when I left was a baby six months old, and their +living-room faces the road so that the north wind blows in right +under the door, and I’ve seen the snow lie in heaps +inside. As reg’lar as winter comes Longwood is +knocked off—no work. I’ve knowed them not have +a bit of meat for weeks together, and him a-loungin’ about +at the corner of the street. Wasn’t that enough to +make him feel as if somebody ought to be killed? And +Marshall and Dennis say as the proper thing to do is to give him +a vote, and prove to him there was never no Abraham nor Isaac, +and that Jonah never was in a whale’s belly, and that +nobody had no business to have more children than he could +feed. And what goes on, and what must go on, inside such a +place as Longwood’s, with him and his wife, and with them +boys and gals all huddled together—But I’d better +hold my tongue. We’ll let the smoke out of this room, +I think, and air it a little.’</p> +<p>She opened the window, and Baruch rose and went home.</p> +<p>Whenever Mrs Caffyn talked about the labourers at Great +Oakhurst, whom she knew so well, Clara always felt as if all her +reading had been a farce, and, indeed, if we come into close +contact with actual life, art, poetry and philosophy seem little +better than trifling. When the mist hangs over the heavy +clay land in January, and men and women shiver in the bitter cold +and eat raw turnips, to indulge in fireside ecstasies over the +divine Plato or Shakespeare is surely not such a virtue as we +imagine it to be.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Baruch</span> sat and mused before he went +to bed. He had gone out stirred by an idea, but it was +already dead. Then he began to think about Clara. Who +was this Dennis who visited the Marshalls and the Hopgoods? +Oh! for an hour of his youth! Fifteen years ago the word +would have come unbidden if he had seen Clara, but now, in place +of the word, there was hesitation, shame. He must make up +his mind to renounce for ever. But, although this +conclusion had forced itself upon him overnight as inevitable, he +could not resist the temptation when he rose the next morning of +plotting to meet Clara, and he walked up and down the street +opposite the shop door that evening nearly a quarter of an hour, +just before closing time, hoping that she might come out and that +he might have the opportunity of overtaking her apparently by +accident. At last, fearing he might miss her, he went in +and found she had a companion whom he instantly knew, before any +induction, to be her sister. Madge was not now the Madge +whom we knew at Fenmarket. She was thinner in the face and +paler. Nevertheless, she was not careless; she was even +more particular in her costume, but it was simpler. If +anything, perhaps, she was a little prouder. She was more +attractive, certainly, than she had ever been, although her face +could not be said to be handsomer. The slight prominence of +the cheek-bone, the slight hollow underneath, the loss of colour, +were perhaps defects, but they said something which had a meaning +in it superior to that of the tint of the peach. She had +been reading a book while Clara was balancing her cash, and she +attempted to replace it. The shelf was a little too high, +and the volume fell upon the ground. It contained +Shelley’s <i>Revolt of Islam</i>.</p> +<p>‘Have you read Shelley?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Every line—when I was much younger.’</p> +<p>‘Do you read him now?’</p> +<p>‘Not much. I was an enthusiast for him when I was +nineteen, but I find that his subject matter is rather thin, and +his themes are a little worn. He was entirely enslaved by +the ideals of the French Revolution. Take away what the +French Revolution contributed to his poetry, and there is not +much left.’</p> +<p>‘As a man he is not very attractive to me.’</p> +<p>‘Nor to me; I never shall forgive his treatment of +Harriet.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose he had ceased to love her, and he thought, +therefore, he was justified in leaving her.’</p> +<p>Madge turned and fixed her eyes, unobserved, on Baruch. +He was looking straight at the bookshelves. There was not, +and, indeed, how could there be, any reference to herself.</p> +<p>‘I should put it in this way,’ she said, +‘that he thought he was justified in sacrificing a woman +for the sake of an <i>impulse</i>. Call this a defect or a +crime—whichever you like—it is repellent to me. +It makes no difference to me to know that he believed the impulse +to be divine.’</p> +<p>‘I wish,’ interrupted Clara, ‘you two would +choose less exciting subjects of conversation; my totals will not +come right.’</p> +<p>They were silent, and Baruch, affecting to study a +Rollin’s <i>Ancient History</i>, wondered, especially when +he called to mind Mrs Caffyn’s report, what this +girl’s history could have been. He presently +recovered himself, and it occurred to him that he ought to give +some reason why he had called. Before, however, he was able +to offer any excuse, Clara closed her book.</p> +<p>‘Now, it is right,’ she said, ‘and I am +ready.’</p> +<p>Just at that moment Barnes appeared, hot with hurrying.</p> +<p>‘Very sorry, Miss Hopgood, to ask you to stay for a few +minutes. I recollected after I left that the doctor +particularly wanted those books sent off to-night. I should +not like to disappoint him. I have been to the +booking-office, and the van will be here in about twenty +minutes. If you will make out the invoice and check me, I +will pack them.’</p> +<p>‘I will be off,’ said Madge. ‘The shop +will be shut if I do not make haste.’</p> +<p>‘You are not going alone, are you?’ said +Baruch. ‘May I not go with you, and cannot we both +come back for your sister?’</p> +<p>‘It is very kind of you.’</p> +<p>Clara looked up from her desk, watched them as they went out +at the door and, for a moment, seemed lost. Barnes turned +round.</p> +<p>‘Now, Miss Hopgood.’ She started.</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Fabricius</i>, <i>J. A.</i> <i>Bibliotheca +Ecclesiastica in qua continentur</i>.’</p> +<p>‘I need not put in the last three words.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, yes.’ Barnes never liked to be +corrected in a title. ‘There’s another +<i>Fabricius Bibliotheca</i> or <i>Bibliographia</i>. Go +on—<i>Basili opera ad MSS. codices</i>, 3 vols.’</p> +<p>Clara silently made the entries a little more scholarly. +In a quarter of an hour the parcel was ready and Cohen +returned.</p> +<p>‘Your sister would not allow me to wait. She met +Mrs Marshall; they said they should have something to carry, and +that it was not worth while to bring it here. I will walk +with you, if you will allow me. We may as well avoid +Holborn.’</p> +<p>They turned into Gray’s Inn, and, when they were in +comparative quietude, he said,—</p> +<p>‘Any Chartist news?’ and then without waiting for +an answer, ‘By the way, who is your friend +Dennis?’</p> +<p>‘He is no particular friend of mine. He is a +wood-engraver, and writes also, I believe, for the +newspapers.’</p> +<p>‘He can talk as well as write.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, he can talk very well.’</p> +<p>‘Do you not think there was something unreal about what +he said?’</p> +<p>‘I do not believe he is actually insincere. I have +noticed that men who write or read much often appear somewhat +shadowy.’</p> +<p>‘How do you account for it?’</p> +<p>‘What they say is not experience.’</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand. A man may think much +which can never become an experience in your sense of the word, +and be very much in earnest with what he thinks; the thinking is +an experience.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I suppose so, but it is what a person has gone +through which I like to hear. Poor Dennis has suffered +much. You are perhaps surprised, but it is true, and when +he leaves politics alone he is a different creature.’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid I must be very uninteresting to +you?’</p> +<p>‘I did not mean that I care for nothing but my +friend’s aches and pains, but that I do not care for what +he just takes up and takes on.’</p> +<p>‘It is my misfortune that my subjects are not +very—I was about to say—human. Perhaps it is +because I am a Jew.’</p> +<p>‘I do not know quite what you mean by your +“subjects,” but if you mean philosophy and religion, +they are human.’</p> +<p>‘If they are, very few people like to hear anything +about them. Do you know, Miss Hopgood, I can never talk to +anybody as I can to you.’</p> +<p>Clara made no reply. A husband was to be had for a look, +for a touch, a husband whom she could love, a husband who could +give her all her intellect demanded. A little house rose +before her eyes as if by Arabian enchantment; there was a bright +fire on the hearth, and there were children round it; without the +look, the touch, there would be solitude, silence and a childless +old age, so much more to be feared by a woman than by a +man. Baruch paused, waiting for her answer, and her tongue +actually began to move with a reply, which would have sent his +arm round her, and made them one for ever, but it did not +come. Something fell and flashed before her like lightning +from a cloud overhead, divinely beautiful, but divinely +terrible.</p> +<p>‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that I have to call +in Lamb’s Conduit Street to buy something for my +sister. I shall just be in time.’ Baruch went +as far as Lamb’s Conduit Street with her. He, too, +would have determined his own destiny if she had uttered the +word, but the power to proceed without it was wanting and he fell +back. He left her at the door of the shop. She bid +him good-bye, obviously intending that he should go no further +with her, and he shook hands with her, taking her hand again and +shaking it again with a grasp which she knew well enough was too +fervent for mere friendship. He then wandered back once +more to his old room at Clerkenwell. The fire was dead, he +stirred it, the cinders fell through the grate and it dropped out +all together. He made no attempt to rekindle it, but sat +staring at the black ashes, not thinking, but dreaming. +Thirty years more perhaps with no change! The last chance +that he could begin a new life had disappeared. He cursed +himself that nothing drove him out of himself with Marshall and +his fellowmen; that he was not Chartist nor revolutionary; but it +was impossible to create in himself enthusiasm for a cause. +He had tried before to become a patriot and had failed, and was +conscious, during the trial, that he was pretending to be +something he was not and could not be. There was nothing to +be done but to pace the straight road in front of him, which led +nowhere, so far as he could see.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +<p>A <span class="smcap">month</span> afterwards Marshall +announced that he intended to pay a visit.</p> +<p>‘I am going,’ he said, ‘to see +Mazzini. Who will go with me?’</p> +<p>Clara and Madge were both eager to accompany him. Mrs +Caffyn and Mrs Marshall chose to stay at home.</p> +<p>‘I shall ask Cohen to come with us,’ said +Marshall. ‘He has never seen Mazzini and would like +to know him.’ Cohen accordingly called one Sunday +evening, and the party went together to a dull, dark, little +house in a shabby street of small shops and furnished +apartments. When they knocked at Mazzini’s door +Marshall asked for Mr — for, even in England, Mazzini had +an assumed name which was always used when inquiries were made +for him. They were shown upstairs into a rather mean room, +and found there a man, really about forty, but looking +older. He had dark hair growing away from his forehead, +dark moustache, dark beard and a singularly serious face. +It was not the face of a conspirator, but that of a saint, +although without that just perceptible touch of silliness which +spoils the faces of most saints. It was the face of a saint +of the Reason, of a man who could be ecstatic for rational +ideals, rarest of all endowments. It was the face, too, of +one who knew no fear, or, if he knew it, could crush it. He +was once concealed by a poor woman whose house was surrounded by +Austrian soldiers watching for him. He was determined that +she should not be sacrificed, and, having disguised himself a +little, walked out into the street in broad daylight, went up to +the Austrian sentry, asked for a light for his cigar and +escaped. He was cordial in his reception of his visitors, +particularly of Clara, Madge and Cohen, whom he had not seen +before.</p> +<p>‘The English,’ he said, after some preliminary +conversation, ‘are a curious people. As a nation they +are what they call practical and have a contempt for ideas, but I +have known some Englishmen who have a religious belief in them, a +nobler belief than I have found in any other nation. There +are English women, also, who have this faith, and one or two are +amongst my dearest friends.’</p> +<p>‘I never,’ said Marshall, ‘quite comprehend +you on this point. I should say that we know as clearly as +most folk what we want, and we mean to have it.’</p> +<p>‘That may be, but it is not Justice, as Justice which +inspires you. Those of you who have not enough, desire to +have more, that is all.’</p> +<p>‘If we are to succeed, we must preach what the people +understand.’</p> +<p>‘Pardon me, that is just where you and I differ. +Whenever any real good is done it is by a crusade; that is to +say, the cross must be raised and appeal be made to something +<i>above</i> the people. No system based on rights will +stand. Never will society be permanent till it is founded +on duty. If we consider our rights exclusively, we extend +them over the rights of our neighbours. If the oppressed +classes had the power to obtain their rights to-morrow, and with +the rights came no deeper sense of duty, the new order, for the +simple reason that the oppressed are no better than their +oppressors, would be just as unstable as that which preceded +it.’</p> +<p>‘To put it in my own language,’ said Madge, +‘you believe in God.’</p> +<p>Mazzini leaned forward and looked earnestly at her.</p> +<p>‘My dear young friend, without that belief I should have +no other.’</p> +<p>‘I should like, though,’ said Marshall, ‘to +see the church which would acknowledge you and Miss Madge, or +would admit your God to be theirs.’</p> +<p>‘What is essential,’ replied Madge, ‘in a +belief in God is absolute loyalty to a principle we know to have +authority.’</p> +<p>‘It may, perhaps,’ said Mazzini, ‘be more to +me, but you are right, it is a belief in the supremacy and +ultimate victory of the conscience.’</p> +<p>‘The victory seems distant in Italy now,’ said +Baruch. ‘I do not mean the millennial victory of +which you speak, but an approximation to it by the overthrow of +tyranny there.’</p> +<p>‘You are mistaken; it is far nearer than you +imagine.’</p> +<p>‘Do you obtain,’ said Clara, ‘any real help +from people here? Do you not find that they merely talk and +express what they call their sympathy?’</p> +<p>‘I must not say what help I have received; more than +words, though, from many.’</p> +<p>‘You expect, then,’ said Baruch, ‘that the +Italians will answer your appeal?’</p> +<p>‘If I had no faith in the people, I do not see what +faith could survive.’</p> +<p>‘The people are the persons you meet in the +street.’</p> +<p>‘A people is not a mere assemblage of uninteresting +units, but it is not a phantom. A spirit lives in each +nation which is superior to any individual in it. It is +this which is the true reality, the nation’s purpose and +destiny, it is this for which the patriot lives and +dies.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose,’ said Clara, ‘you have no +difficulty in obtaining volunteers for any dangerous +enterprise?’</p> +<p>‘None. You would be amazed if I were to tell you +how many men and women at this very moment would go to meet +certain death if I were to ask them.’</p> +<p>‘Women?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes; and women are of the greatest use, but it is +rather difficult to find those who have the necessary +qualifications.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose you employ them in order to obtain secret +information?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; amongst the Austrians.’</p> +<p>The party broke up. Baruch manœuvred to walk with +Clara, but Marshall wanted to borrow a book from Mazzini, and she +stayed behind for him. Madge was outside in the street, and +Baruch could do nothing but go to her. She seemed unwilling +to wait, and Baruch and she went slowly homewards, thinking the +others would overtake them. The conversation naturally +turned upon Mazzini.</p> +<p>‘Although,’ said Madge, ‘I have never seen +him before, I have heard much about him and he makes me +sad.’</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘Because he has done something worth doing and will do +more.’</p> +<p>‘But why should that make you sad?’</p> +<p>‘I do not think there is anything sadder than to know +you are able to do a little good and would like to do it, and yet +you are not permitted to do it. Mazzini has a world open to +him large enough for the exercise of all his powers.’</p> +<p>‘It is worse to have a desire which is intense but not +definite, to be continually anxious to do something, you know not +what, and always to feel, if any distinct task is offered, your +incapability of attempting it.’</p> +<p>‘A man, if he has a real desire to be of any service, +can generally gratify it to some extent; a woman as a rule +cannot, although a woman’s enthusiasm is deeper than a +man’s. You can join Mazzini to-morrow, I suppose, if +you like.’</p> +<p>‘It is a supposition not quite justifiable, and if I +were free to go I could not.’</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘I am not fitted for such work; I have not sufficient +faith. When I see a flag waving, a doubt always +intrudes. Long ago I was forced to the conclusion that I +should have to be content with a life which did not extend +outside itself.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure that many women blunder into the wrong path, +not because they are bad, but simply because—if I may say +so—they are too good.’</p> +<p>‘Maybe you are right. The inability to obtain mere +pleasure has not produced the misery which has been begotten of +mistaken or baffled self-sacrifice. But do you mean to say +that you would like to enlist under Mazzini?’</p> +<p>‘No!’</p> +<p>Baruch thought she referred to her child, and he was +silent.</p> +<p>‘You are a philosopher,’ said Madge, after a +pause. ‘Have you never discovered anything which will +enable us to submit to be useless?’</p> +<p>‘That is to say, have I discovered a religion? for the +core of religion is the relationship of the individual to the +whole, the faith that the poorest and meanest of us is a +person. That is the real strength of all +religions.’</p> +<p>‘Well, go on; what do you believe?’</p> +<p>‘I can only say it like a creed; I have no +demonstration, at least none such as I would venture to put into +words. Perhaps the highest of all truths is incapable of +demonstration and can only be stated. Perhaps, also, the +statement, at least to some of us, is a sufficient +demonstration. I believe that inability to imagine a thing +is not a reason for its non-existence. If the infinite is a +conclusion which is forced upon me, the fact that I cannot +picture it does not disprove it. I believe, also, in +thought and the soul, and it is nothing to me that I cannot +explain them by attributes belonging to body. That being +so, the difficulties which arise from the perpetual and +unconscious confusion of the qualities of thought and soul with +those of body disappear. Our imagination represents to +itself souls like pebbles, and asks itself what count can be kept +of a million, but number in such a case is inapplicable. I +believe that all thought is a manifestation of the Being, who is +One, whom you may call God if you like, and that, as It never was +created, It will never be destroyed.’</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Madge, interrupting him, +‘although you began by warning me not to expect that you +would prove anything, you can tell me whether you have any kind +of basis for what you say, or whether it is all a +dream.’</p> +<p>‘You will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that +mathematics, which, of course, I had to learn for my own +business, have supplied something for a foundation. They +lead to ideas which are inconsistent with the notion that the +imagination is a measure of all things. Mind, I do not for +a moment pretend that I have any theory which explains the +universe. It is something, however, to know that the sky is +as real as the earth.’</p> +<p>They had now reached Great Ormond Street, and parted. +Clara and Marshall were about five minutes behind them. +Madge was unusually cheerful when they sat down to supper.</p> +<p>‘Clara,’ she said, ‘what made you so silent +to-night at Mazzini’s?’ Clara did not reply, +but after a pause of a minute or two, she asked Mrs Caffyn +whether it would not be possible for them all to go into the +country on Whitmonday? Whitsuntide was late; it would be +warm, and they could take their food with them and eat it out of +doors.</p> +<p>‘Just the very thing, my dear, if we could get anything +cheap to take us; the baby, of course, must go with us.</p> +<p>‘I should like above everything to go to Great +Oakhurst.’</p> +<p>‘What, five of us—twenty miles there and twenty +miles back! Besides, although I love the place, it +isn’t exactly what one would go to see just for a +day. No! Letherhead or Mickleham or Darkin would be +ever so much better. They are too far, though, and, then, +that man Baruch must go with us. He’d be company for +Marshall, and he sticks up in Clerkenwell and never goes +nowhere. You remember as Marshall said as he must ask him +the next time we had an outing.’</p> +<p>Clara had not forgotten it.</p> +<p>‘Ah,’ continued Mrs Caffyn, ‘I should just +love to show you Mickleham.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn’s heart yearned after her Surrey land. +The man who is born in a town does not know what it is to be +haunted through life by lovely visions of the landscape which lay +about him when he was young. The village youth leaves the +home of his childhood for the city, but the river doubling on +itself, the overhanging alders and willows, the fringe of level +meadow, the chalk hills bounding the river valley and rising +against the sky, with here and there on their summits solitary +clusters of beech, the light and peace of the different seasons, +of morning, afternoon and evening, never forsake him. To +think of them is not a mere luxury; their presence modifies the +whole of his life.</p> +<p>‘I don’t see how it is to be managed,’ she +mused; ‘and yet there’s nothing near London as +I’d give two pins to see. There’s Richmond as +we went to one Sunday; it was no better, to my way of thinking, +than looking at a picture. I’d ever so much sooner be +a-walking across the turnips by the footpath from Darkin +home.’</p> +<p>‘Couldn’t we, for once in a way, stay somewhere +over-night?’</p> +<p>‘It might as well be two,’ said Mrs Marshall; +‘Saturday and Sunday.’</p> +<p>‘Two,’ said Madge; ‘I vote for +two.’</p> +<p>‘Wait a bit, my dears, we’re a precious awkward +lot to fit in—Marshall and his wife me and you and Miss +Clara and the baby; and then there’s Baruch, who’s +odd man, so to speak; that’s three bedrooms. We +sha’n’t do it—Otherwise, I was +a-thinking—’</p> +<p>‘What were you thinking?’ said Marshall.</p> +<p>‘I’ve got it,’ said Mrs Caffyn, +joyously. ‘Miss Clara and me will go to Great +Oakhurst on the Friday. We can easy enough stay at my old +shop. Marshall and Sarah, Miss Madge, the baby and Baruch +can go to Letherhead on the Saturday morning. The two women +and the baby can have one of the rooms at Skelton’s, and +Marshall and Baruch can have the other. Then, on Sunday +morning, Miss Clara and me we’ll come over for you, and +we’ll all walk through Norbury Park. That’ll be +ever so much better in many ways. Miss Clara and me, +we’ll go by the coach. Six of us, not reckoning the +baby, in that heavy ginger-beer cart of Masterman’s would +be too much.’</p> +<p>‘An expensive holiday, rather,’ said Marshall.</p> +<p>‘Leave that to me; that’s my business. I +ain’t quite a beggar, and if we can’t take our +pleasure once a year, it’s a pity. We aren’t +like some folk as messes about up to Hampstead every Sunday, and +spends a fortune on shrimps and donkeys. No; when I go +away, it <i>is</i> away, maybe it’s only for a couple of +days, where I can see a blessed ploughed field; no shrimps nor +donkeys for me.’</p> +<h2>CHARTER XXIX</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">So</span> it was settled, and on the +Friday Clara and Mrs Caffyn journeyed to Great Oakhurst. +They were both tired, and went to bed very early, in order that +they might enjoy the next day. Clara, always a light +sleeper, woke between three and four, rose and went to the little +casement window which had been open all night. Below her, +on the left, the church was just discernible, and on the right, +the broad chalk uplands leaned to the south, and were waving with +green barley and wheat. Underneath her lay the cottage +garden, with its row of beehives in the north-east corner, +sheltered from the cold winds by the thick hedge. It had +evidently been raining a little, for the drops hung on the +currant bushes, but the clouds had been driven by the +south-westerly wind into the eastern sky, where they lay in a +long, low, grey band. Not a sound was to be heard, save +every now and then the crow of a cock or the short cry of a +just-awakened thrush. High up on the zenith, the approach +of the sun to the horizon was proclaimed by the most delicate +tints of rose-colour, but the cloud-bank above him was dark and +untouched, although the blue which was over it, was every moment +becoming paler. Clara watched; she was moved even to tears +by the beauty of the scene, but she was stirred by something more +than beauty, just as he who was in the Spirit and beheld a throne +and One sitting thereon, saw something more than loveliness, +although He was radiant with the colour of jasper and there was a +rainbow round about Him like an emerald to look upon. In a +few moments the highest top of the cloud-rampart was kindled, and +the whole wavy outline became a fringe of flame. In a few +moments more the fire just at one point became blinding, and in +another second the sun emerged, the first arrowy shaft passed +into her chamber, the first shadow was cast, and it was +day. She put her hands to her face; the tears fell faster, +but she wiped them away and her great purpose was fixed. +She crept back into bed, her agitation ceased, a strange and +almost supernatural peace overshadowed her and she fell asleep +not to wake till the sound of the scythe had ceased in the meadow +just beyond the rick-yard that came up to one side of the +cottage, and the mowers were at their breakfast.</p> +<p>Neither Mrs Caffyn nor Clara thought of seeing the Letherhead +party on Saturday. They could not arrive before the +afternoon, and it was considered hardly worth while to walk from +Great Oakhurst to Letherhead merely for the sake of an hour or +two. In the morning Mrs Caffyn was so busy with her old +friends that she rather tired herself, and in the evening Clara +went for a stroll. She did not know the country, but she +wandered on until she came to a lane which led down to the +river. At the bottom of the lane she found herself at a +narrow, steep, stone bridge. She had not been there more +than three or four minutes before she descried two persons coming +down the lane from Letherhead. When they were about a +couple of hundred yards from her they turned into the meadow over +the stile, and struck the river-bank some distance below the +point where she was. It was impossible to mistake them; +they were Madge and Baruch. They sauntered leisurely; +presently Baruch knelt down over the water, apparently to gather +something which he gave to Madge. They then crossed another +stile and were lost behind the tall hedge which stopped further +view of the footpath in that direction.</p> +<p>‘The message then was authentic,’ she said to +herself. ‘I thought I could not have misunderstood +it.’</p> +<p>On Sunday morning Clara wished to stay at home. She +pleaded that she preferred rest, but Mrs Caffyn vowed there +should be no Norbury Park if Clara did not go, and the kind +creature managed to persuade a pig-dealer to drive them over to +Letherhead for a small sum, notwithstanding it was Sunday. +The whole party then set out; the baby was drawn in a borrowed +carriage which also took the provisions, and they were fairly out +of the town before the Letherhead bells had ceased ringing for +church. It was one of the sweetest of Sundays, sunny, but +masses of white clouds now and then broke the heat. The +park was reached early in the forenoon, and it was agreed that +dinner should be served under one of the huge beech trees at the +lower end, as the hill was a little too steep for the +baby-carriage in the hot sun.</p> +<p>‘This is very beautiful,’ said Marshall, when +dinner was over, ‘but it is not what we came to see. +We ought to move upwards to the Druid’s grove.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, you be off, the whole lot of you,’ said Mrs +Caffyn. ‘I know every tree there, and I ain’t +going there this afternoon. Somebody must stay here to look +after the baby; you can’t wheel her, you’ll have to +carry her, and you won’t enjoy yourselves much more for +moiling along with her up that hill.’</p> +<p>‘I will stay with you,’ said Clara.</p> +<p>Everybody protested, but Clara was firm. She was tired, +and the sun had given her a headache. Madge pleaded that it +was she who ought to remain behind, but at last gave way for her +sister looked really fatigued.</p> +<p>‘There’s a dear child,’ said Clara, when +Madge consented to go. ‘I shall lie on the grass and +perhaps go to sleep.’</p> +<p>‘It is a pity,’ said Baruch to Madge as they went +away, ‘that we are separated; we must come +again.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I am sorry, but perhaps it is better she should be +where she is; she is not particularly strong, and is obliged to +be very careful.’</p> +<p>In due time they all came to the famous yews, and sat down on +one of the seats overlooking that wonderful gate in the chalk +downs through which the Mole passes northwards.</p> +<p>‘We must go,’ said Marshall, ‘a little bit +further and see the oak.’</p> +<p>‘Not another step,’ said his wife. +‘You can go it you like.’</p> +<p>‘Content; nothing could be pleasanter than to sit +here,’ and he pulled out his pipe; ‘but really, Miss +Madge, to leave Norbury without paying a visit to the oak is a +pity.’</p> +<p>He did not offer, however, to accompany her.</p> +<p>‘It is the most extraordinary tree in these +parts,’ said Baruch; ‘of incalculable age and with +branches spreading into a tent big enough to cover a +regiment. Marshall is quite right.’</p> +<p>‘Where is it?’</p> +<p>‘Not above a couple of hundred yards further; just round +the corner.’</p> +<p>Madge rose and looked.</p> +<p>‘No; it is not visible here; it stands a little way +back. If you come a little further you will catch a glimpse +of it.’</p> +<p>She followed him and presently the oak came in view. +They climbed up the bank and went nearer to it. The whole +vale was underneath them and part of the weald with the Sussex +downs blue in the distance. Baruch was not much given to +raptures over scenery, but the indifference of Nature to the +world’s turmoil always appealed to him.</p> +<p>‘You are not now discontented because you cannot serve +under Mazzini?’</p> +<p>‘Not now.’</p> +<p>There was nothing in her reply on the face of it of any +particular consequence to Baruch. She might simply have +intended that the beauty of the fair landscape extinguished her +restlessness, or that she saw her own unfitness, but neither of +these interpretations presented itself to him.</p> +<p>‘I have sometimes thought,’ continued Baruch, +slowly, ‘that the love of any two persons in this world may +fulfil an eternal purpose which is as necessary to the Universe +as a great revolution.’</p> +<p>Madge’s eyes moved round from the hills and they met +Baruch’s. No syllable was uttered, but swiftest +messages passed, question and answer. There was no +hesitation on his part now, no doubt, the woman and the moment +had come. The last question was put, the final answer was +given; he took her hand in his and came closer to her.</p> +<p>‘Stop!’ she whispered, ‘do you know my +history?’</p> +<p>He did not reply, but fell upon her neck. This was the +goal to which both had been journeying all these years, although +with much weary mistaking of roads; this was what from the +beginning was designed for both! Happy Madge! happy +Baruch! There are some so closely akin that the meaning of +each may be said to lie in the other, who do not approach till it +is too late. They travel towards one another, but are +waylaid and detained, and just as they are within greeting, one +of them drops and dies.</p> +<p>They left the tree and went back to the Marshalls, and then +down the hill to Mrs Caffyn and Clara. Clara was much +better for her rest, and early in the evening the whole party +returned to Letherhead, Clara and Mrs Caffyn going on to Great +Oakhurst. Madge kept close to her sister till they +separated, and the two men walked together. On Whitmonday +morning the Letherhead people came over to Great Oakhurst. +They had to go back to London in the afternoon, but Mrs Caffyn +and Clara were to stay till Tuesday, as they stood a better +chance of securing places by the coach on that day. Mrs +Caffyn had as much to show them as if the village had been the +Tower of London. The wonder of wonders, however, was a big +house, where she was well known, and its hot-houses. Madge +wanted to speak to Clara, but it was difficult to find a private +opportunity. When they were in the garden, however, she +managed to take Clara unobserved down one of the twisted paths, +under pretence of admiring an ancient mulberry tree.</p> +<p>‘Clara,’ she said, ‘I want a word with +you. Baruch Cohen loves me.’</p> +<p>‘Do you love him?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Without a shadow of a doubt?’</p> +<p>‘Without a shadow of a doubt.’</p> +<p>Clara put her arm round her sister, kissed her tenderly and +said,—</p> +<p>‘Then I am perfectly happy.’</p> +<p>‘Did you suspect it?’</p> +<p>‘I knew it.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn called them; it was time to be moving, and soon +afterwards those who had to go to London that afternoon left for +Letherhead. Clara stood at the gate for a long time +watching them along the straight, white road. They came to +the top of the hill; she could just discern them against the sky; +they passed over the ridge and she went indoors. In the +evening a friend called to see Mrs Caffyn, and Clara went to the +stone bridge which she had visited on Saturday. The water +on the upper side of the bridge was dammed up and fell over the +little sluice gates under the arches into a clear and deep basin +about forty or fifty feet in diameter. The river, for some +reason of its own, had bitten into the western bank, and had +scooped out a great piece of it into an island. The main +current went round the island with a shallow, swift ripple, +instead of going through the pool, as it might have done, for +there was a clear channel for it. The centre and the region +under the island were deep and still, but at the farther end, +where the river in passing called to the pool, it broke into +waves as it answered the appeal, and added its own contribution +to the stream, which went away down to the mill and onwards to +the big Thames. On the island were aspens and alders. +The floods had loosened the roots of the largest tree, and it +hung over heavily in the direction in which it had yielded to the +rush of the torrent, but it still held its grip, and the sap had +not forsaken a single branch. Every one was as dense with +foliage as if there had been no struggle for life, and the leaves +sang their sweet song, just perceptible for a moment every now +and then in the variations of the louder music below them. +It is curious that the sound of a weir is never uniform, but is +perpetually changing in the ear even of a person who stands close +by it. One of the arches of the bridge was dry, and Clara +went down into it, stood at the edge and watched that wonderful +sight—the plunge of a smooth, pure stream into the great +cup which it has hollowed out for itself. Down it went, +with a dancing, foamy fringe playing round it just where it met +the surface; a dozen yards away it rose again, bubbling and +exultant.</p> +<p>She came up from the arch and went home as the sun was +setting. She found Mrs Caffyn alone.</p> +<p>‘I have news to tell you,’ she said. +‘Baruch Cohen is in love with my sister, and she is in love +with him.’</p> +<p>‘The Lord, Miss Clara! I thought sometimes that +perhaps it might be you; but there, it’s better, maybe, as +it is, for—’</p> +<p>‘For what?’</p> +<p>‘Why, my dear, because somebody’s sure to turn up +who’ll make you happy, but there aren’t many men like +Baruch. You see what I mean, don’t you? +He’s always a-reading books, and, therefore, he don’t +think so much of what some people would make a fuss about. +Not as anything of that kind would ever stop me, if I were a man +and saw such a woman as Miss Madge. He’s really as +good a creature as ever was born, and with that child she might +have found it hard to get along, and now it will be cared for, +and so will she be to the end of their lives.’</p> +<p>The evening after their return to Great Ormond Street, Mazzini +was surprised by a visit from Clara alone.</p> +<p>‘When I last saw you,’ she said, ‘you told +us that you had been helped by women. I offer +myself.’</p> +<p>‘But, my dear madam, you hardly know what the +qualifications are. To begin with, there must be a +knowledge of three foreign languages, French, German and Italian, +and the capacity and will to endure great privation, suffering +and, perhaps, death.’</p> +<p>‘I was educated abroad, I can speak German and +French. I do not know much Italian, but when I reach Italy +I will soon learn.’</p> +<p>‘Pardon me for asking you what may appear a rude +question. Is it a personal disappointment which sends you +to me, or love for the cause? It is not uncommon to find +that young women, when earthly love is impossible, attempt to +satisfy their cravings with a love for that which is +impersonal.’</p> +<p>‘Does it make any difference, so far as their constancy +is concerned?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say that it does. The devotion of many +of the martyrs of the Catholic church was repulsion from the +world as much as attraction to heaven. You must understand +that I am not prompted by curiosity. If you are to be my +friend, it is necessary that I should know you +thoroughly.’</p> +<p>‘My motive is perfectly pure.’</p> +<p>They had some further talk and parted. After a few more +interviews, Clara and another English lady started for +Italy. Madge had letters from her sister at intervals for +eighteen months, the last being from Venice. Then they +ceased, and shortly afterwards Mazzini told Baruch that his +sister-in-law was dead.</p> +<p>All efforts to obtain more information from Mazzini were in +vain, but one day when her name was mentioned, he said to +Madge,—</p> +<p>‘The theologians represent the Crucifixion as the most +sublime fact in the world’s history. It was sublime, +but let us reverence also the Eternal Christ who is for ever +being crucified for our salvation.’</p> +<p>‘Father,’ said a younger Clara to Baruch some ten +years later as she sat on his knee, ‘I had an Aunt Clara +once, hadn’t I?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, my child.’</p> +<p>‘Didn’t she go to Italy and die there?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Why did she go?’</p> +<p>‘Because she wanted to free the poor people of Italy who +were slaves.’</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>THE END</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Colston & Company</i>, +<i>Ltd.</i>, <i>Printers</i>, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARA HOPGOOD***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 5986-h.htm or 5986-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/9/8/5986 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Clara Hopgood + +Author: Mark Rutherford + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5986] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CLARA HOPGOOD *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1907 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +CLARA HOPGOOD + + + + +CHAPTER I + + + +About ten miles north-east of Eastthorpe lies the town of Fenmarket, +very like Eastthorpe generally; and as we are already familiar with +Eastthorpe, a particular description of Fenmarket is unnecessary. +There is, however, one marked difference between them. Eastthorpe, +it will be remembered, is on the border between the low uplands and +the Fens, and has one side open to soft, swelling hills. Fenmarket +is entirely in the Fens, and all the roads that lead out of it are +alike level, monotonous, straight, and flanked by deep and stagnant +ditches. The river, also, here is broader and slower; more reluctant +than it is even at Eastthorpe to hasten its journey to the inevitable +sea. During the greater part of the year the visitor to Fenmarket +would perhaps find it dull and depressing, and at times, under a +grey, wintry sky, almost unendurable; but nevertheless, for days and +weeks it has a charm possessed by few other landscapes in England, +provided only that behind the eye which looks there is something to +which a landscape of that peculiar character answers. There is, for +example, the wide, dome-like expanse of the sky, there is the +distance, there is the freedom and there are the stars on a clear +night. The orderly, geometrical march of the constellations from the +extreme eastern horizon across the meridian and down to the west has +a solemn majesty, which is only partially discernible when their +course is interrupted by broken country. + +On a dark afternoon in November 1844, two young women, Clara and +Madge Hopgood, were playing chess in the back parlour of their +mother's house at Fenmarket, just before tea. Clara, the elder, was +about five-and-twenty, fair, with rather light hair worn flat at the +side of her face, after the fashion of that time. Her features were +tolerably regular. It is true they were somewhat marred by an uneven +nasal outline, but this was redeemed by the curved lips of a mouth +which was small and rather compressed, and by a definite, symmetrical +and graceful figure. Her eyes were grey, with a curious peculiarity +in them. Ordinarily they were steady, strong eyes, excellent and +renowned optical instruments. Over and over again she had detected, +along the stretch of the Eastthorpe road, approaching visitors, and +had named them when her companions could see nothing but specks. +Occasionally, however, these steady, strong, grey eyes utterly +changed. They were the same eyes, the same colour, but they ceased +to be mere optical instruments and became instruments of expression, +transmissive of radiance to such a degree that the light which was +reflected from them seemed insufficient to account for it. It was +also curious that this change, though it must have been accompanied +by some emotion, was just as often not attended by any other sign of +it. Clara was, in fact, little given to any display of feeling. + +Madge, four years younger than her sister, was of a different type +altogether, and one more easily comprehended. She had very heavy +dark hair, and she had blue eyes, a combination which fascinated +Fenmarket. Fenmarket admired Madge more than it was admired by her +in return, and she kept herself very much to herself, notwithstanding +what it considered to be its temptations. If she went shopping she +nearly always went with her sister; she stood aloof from all the +small gaieties of the town; walked swiftly through its streets, and +repelled, frigidly and decisively, all offers, and they were not a +few, which had been made to her by the sons of the Fenmarket +tradesfolk. Fenmarket pronounced her 'stuck-up,' and having thus +labelled her, considered it had exhausted her. The very important +question, Whether there was anything which naturally stuck up? +Fenmarket never asked. It was a great relief to that provincial +little town in 1844, in this and in other cases, to find a word which +released it from further mental effort and put out of sight any +troublesome, straggling, indefinable qualities which it would +otherwise have been forced to examine and name. Madge was certainly +stuck-up, but the projection above those around her was not +artificial. Both she and her sister found the ways of Fenmarket were +not to their taste. The reason lay partly in their nature and partly +in their history. + +Mrs Hopgood was the widow of the late manager in the Fenmarket branch +of the bank of Rumbold, Martin & Rumbold, and when her husband died +she had of course to leave the Bank Buildings. As her income was +somewhat straitened, she was obliged to take a small house, and she +was now living next door to the 'Crown and Sceptre,' the principal +inn in the town. There was then no fringe of villas to Fenmarket for +retired quality; the private houses and shops were all mixed +together, and Mrs Hopgood's cottage was squeezed in between the +ironmonger's and the inn. It was very much lower than either of its +big neighbours, but it had a brass knocker and a bell, and distinctly +asserted and maintained a kind of aristocratic superiority. + +Mr Hopgood was not a Fenmarket man. He came straight from London to +be manager. He was in the bank of the London agents of Rumbold, +Martin & Rumbold, and had been strongly recommended by the city firm +as just the person to take charge of a branch which needed thorough +reorganisation. He succeeded, and nobody in Fenmarket was more +respected. He lived, however, a life apart from his neighbours, +excepting so far as business was concerned. He went to church once +on Sunday because the bank expected him to go, but only once, and had +nothing to do with any of its dependent institutions. He was a great +botanist, very fond of walking, and in the evening, when Fenmarket +generally gathered itself into groups for gossip, either in the +street or in back parlours, or in the 'Crown and Sceptre,' Mr +Hopgood, tall, lean and stately, might be seen wandering along the +solitary roads searching for flowers, which, in that part of the +world, were rather scarce. He was also a great reader of the best +books, English, German and French, and held high doctrine, very high +for those days, on the training of girls, maintaining that they need, +even more than boys, exact discipline and knowledge. Boys, he +thought, find health in an occupation; but an uncultivated, unmarried +girl dwells with her own untutored thoughts, which often breed +disease. His two daughters, therefore, received an education much +above that which was usual amongst people in their position, and each +of them--an unheard of wonder in Fenmarket--had spent some time in a +school in Weimar. Mr Hopgood was also peculiar in his way of dealing +with his children. He talked to them and made them talk to him, and +whatever they read was translated into speech; thought, in his house, +was vocal. + +Mrs Hopgood, too, had been the intimate friend of her husband, and +was the intimate friend of her daughters. She was now nearly sixty, +but still erect and graceful, and everybody could see that the +picture of a beautiful girl of one-and-twenty, which hung opposite +the fireplace, had once been her portrait. She had been brought up, +as thoroughly as a woman could be brought up, in those days, to be a +governess. The war prevented her education abroad, but her father, +who was a clergyman, not too rich, engaged a French emigrant lady to +live in his house to teach her French and other accomplishments. She +consequently spoke French perfectly, and she could also read and +speak Spanish fairly well, for the French lady had spent some years +in Spain. Mr Hopgood had never been particularly in earnest about +religion, but his wife was a believer, neither High Church nor Low +Church, but inclined towards a kind of quietism not uncommon in the +Church of England, even during its bad time, a reaction against the +formalism which generally prevailed. When she married, Mrs Hopgood +did not altogether follow her husband. She never separated herself +from her faith, and never would have confessed that she had separated +herself from her church. But although she knew that his creed +externally was not hers, her own was not sharply cut, and she +persuaded herself that, in substance, his and her belief were +identical. As she grew older her relationship to the Unseen became +more and more intimate, but she was less and less inclined to +criticise her husband's freedom, or to impose on the children a rule +which they would certainly have observed, but only for her sake. +Every now and then she felt a little lonely; when, for example, she +read one or two books which were particularly her own; when she +thought of her dead father and mother, and when she prayed her +solitary prayer. Mr Hopgood took great pains never to disturb that +sacred moment. Indeed, he never for an instant permitted a finger to +be laid upon what she considered precious. He loved her because she +had the strength to be what she was when he first knew her and she +had so fascinated him. He would have been disappointed if the +mistress of his youth had become some other person, although the +change, in a sense, might have been development and progress. He did +really love her piety, too, for its own sake. It mixed something +with her behaviour to him and to the children which charmed him, and +he did not know from what other existing source anything comparable +to it could be supplied. Mrs Hopgood seldom went to church. The +church, to be sure, was horribly dead, but she did not give that as a +reason. She had, she said, an infirmity, a strange restlessness +which prevented her from sitting still for an hour. She often +pleaded this excuse, and her husband and daughters never, by word or +smile, gave her the least reason to suppose that they did not believe +her. + + + +CHAPTER II + + + +Both Clara and Madge went first to an English day-school, and Clara +went straight from this school to Germany, but Madge's course was a +little different. She was not very well, and it was decided that she +should have at least a twelvemonth in a boarding-school at Brighton +before going abroad. It had been very highly recommended, but the +head-mistress was Low Church and aggressive. Mr Hopgood, far away +from the High and Low Church controversy, came to the conclusion +that, in Madge's case, the theology would have no effect on her. It +was quite impossible, moreover, to find a school which would be just +what he could wish it to be. Madge, accordingly, was sent to +Brighton, and was introduced into a new world. She was just +beginning to ask herself WHY certain things were right and other +things were wrong, and the Brighton answer was that the former were +directed by revelation and the latter forbidden, and that the 'body' +was an affliction to the soul, a means of 'probation,' our principal +duty being to 'war' against it. + +Madge's bedroom companion was a Miss Selina Fish, daughter of +Barnabas Fish, Esquire, of Clapham, and merchant of the City of +London. Miss Fish was not traitorous at heart, but when she found +out that Madge had not been christened, she was so overcome that she +was obliged to tell her mother. Miss Fish was really unhappy, and +one cold night, when Madge crept into her neighbour's bed, contrary +to law, but in accordance with custom when the weather was very +bitter, poor Miss Fish shrank from her, half-believing that something +dreadful might happen if she should by any chance touch unbaptised, +naked flesh. Mrs Fish told her daughter that perhaps Miss Hopgood +might be a Dissenter, and that although Dissenters were to be pitied, +and even to be condemned, many of them were undoubtedly among the +redeemed, as for example, that man of God, Dr Doddridge, whose Family +Expositor was read systematically at home, as Selina knew. Then +there were Matthew Henry, whose commentary her father preferred to +any other, and the venerable saint, the Reverend William Jay of Bath, +whom she was proud to call her friend. Miss Fish, therefore, made +further inquiries gently and delicately, but she found to her horror +that Madge had neither been sprinkled nor immersed! Perhaps she was +a Jewess or a heathen! This was a happy thought, for then she might +be converted. Selina knew what interest her mother took in missions +to heathens and Jews; and if Madge, by the humble instrumentality of +a child, could be brought to the foot of the Cross, what would her +mother and father say? What would they not say? Fancy taking Madge +to Clapham in a nice white dress--it should be white, thought Selina- +-and presenting her as a saved lamb! + +The very next night she began, - + +'I suppose your father is a foreigner?' + +'No, he is an Englishman.' + +'But if he is an Englishman you must have been baptised, or +sprinkled, or immersed, and your father and mother must belong to +church or chapel. I know there are thousands of wicked people who +belong to neither, but they are drunkards and liars and robbers, and +even they have their children christened.' + +'Well, he is an Englishman,' said Madge, smiling. + +'Perhaps,' said Selina, timidly, 'he may be--he may be--Jewish. +Mamma and papa pray for the Jews every morning. They are not like +other unbelievers.' + +'No, he is certainly not a Jew.' + +'What is he, then?' + +'He is my papa and a very honest, good man.' + +'Oh, my dear Madge! honesty is a broken reed. I have heard mamma say +that she is more hopeful of thieves than honest people who think they +are saved by works, for the thief who was crucified went to heaven, +and if he had been only an honest man he never would have found the +Saviour and would have gone to hell. Your father must be something.' + +'I can only tell you again that he is honest and good.' + +Selina was confounded. She had heard of those people who were +NOTHING, and had always considered them as so dreadful that she could +not bear to think of them. The efforts of her father and mother did +not extend to them; they were beyond the reach of the preacher--mere +vessels of wrath. If Madge had confessed herself Roman Catholic, or +idolator, Selina knew how to begin. She would have pointed out to +the Catholic how unscriptural it was to suppose that anybody could +forgive sins excepting God, and she would at once have been able to +bring the idolator to his knees by exposing the absurdity of +worshipping bits of wood and stone; but with a person who was nothing +she could not tell what to do. She was puzzled to understand what +right Madge had to her name. Who had any authority to say she was to +be called Madge Hopgood? She determined at last to pray to God and +again ask her mother's help. + +She did pray earnestly that very night, and had not finished until +long after Madge had said her Lord's Prayer. This was always said +night and morning, both by Madge and Clara. They had been taught it +by their mother. It was, by the way, one of poor Selina's troubles +that Madge said nothing but the Lord's Prayer when she lay down and +when she rose; of course, the Lord's Prayer was the best--how could +it be otherwise, seeing that our Lord used it?--but those who +supplemented it with no petitions of their own were set down as +formalists, and it was always suspected that they had not received +the true enlightenment from above. Selina cried to God till the +counterpane was wet with her tears, but it was the answer from her +mother which came first, telling her that however praiseworthy her +intentions might be, argument with such a DANGEROUS infidel as Madge +would be most perilous, and she was to desist from it at once. Mrs +Fish had by that post written to Miss Pratt, the schoolmistress, and +Selina no doubt would not be exposed to further temptation. Mrs +Fish's letter to Miss Pratt was very strong, and did not mince +matters. She informed Miss Pratt that a wolf was in her fold, and +that if the creature were not promptly expelled, Selina must be +removed into safety. Miss Pratt was astonished, and instantly, as +her custom was, sought the advice of her sister, Miss Hannah Pratt, +who had charge of the wardrobes and household matters generally. +Miss Hannah Pratt was never in the best of tempers, and just now was +a little worse than usual. It was one of the rules of the school +that no tradesmen's daughters should be admitted, but it was very +difficult to draw the line, and when drawn, the Misses Pratt were +obliged to admit it was rather ridiculous. There was much debate +over an application by an auctioneer. He was clearly not a +tradesman, but he sold chairs, tables and pigs, and, as Miss Hannah +said, used vulgar language in recommending them. However, his wife +had money; they lived in a pleasant house in Lewes, and the line went +outside him. But when a druggist, with a shop in Bond Street, +proposed his daughter, Miss Hannah took a firm stand. What is the +use of a principle, she inquired severely, if we do not adhere to it? +On the other hand, the druggist's daughter was the eldest of six, who +might all come when they were old enough to leave home, and Miss +Pratt thought there was a real difference between a druggist and, +say, a bootmaker. + +'Bootmaker!' said Miss Hannah with great scorn. 'I am surprised that +you venture to hint the remotest possibility of such a contingency.' + +At last it was settled that the line should also be drawn outside the +druggist. Miss Hannah, however, had her revenge. A tanner in +Bermondsey with a house in Bedford Square, had sent two of his +children to Miss Pratt's seminary. Their mother found out that they +had struck up a friendship with a young person whose father +compounded prescriptions for her, and when she next visited Brighton +she called on Miss Pratt, reminded her that it was understood that +her pupils would 'all be taken from a superior class in society,' and +gently hinted that she could not allow Bedford Square to be +contaminated by Bond Street. Miss Pratt was most apologetic, +enlarged upon the druggist's respectability, and more particularly +upon his well-known piety and upon his generous contributions to the +cause of religion. This, indeed, was what decided her to make an +exception in his favour, and the piety also of his daughter was 'most +exemplary.' However, the tanner's lady, although a shining light in +the church herself, was not satisfied that a retail saint could +produce a proper companion for her own offspring, and went away +leaving Miss Pratt very uncomfortable. + +'I warned you,' said Miss Hannah; 'I told you what would happen, and +as to Mr Hopgood, I suspected him from the first. Besides, he is +only a banker's clerk.' + +'Well, what is to be done?' + +'Put your foot down at once.' Miss Hannah suited the action to the +word, and put down, with emphasis, on the hearthrug a very large, +plate-shaped foot cased in a black felt shoe. + +'But I cannot dismiss them. Don't you think it will be better, first +of all, to talk to Miss Hopgood? Perhaps we could do her some good.' + +'Good! Now, do you think we can do any good to an atheist? Besides, +we have to consider our reputation. Whatever good we might do, it +would be believed that the infection remained.' + +'We have no excuse for dismissing the other.' + +'Excuse! none is needed, nor would any be justifiable. Excuses are +immoral. Say at once--of course politely and with regret--that the +school is established on a certain basis. It will be an advantage to +us if it is known why these girls do not remain. I will dictate the +letter, if you like.' + +Miss Hannah Pratt had not received the education which had been given +to her younger sister, and therefore, was nominally subordinate, but +really she was chief. She considered it especially her duty not only +to look after the children's clothes, the servants and the accounts, +but to maintain TONE everywhere in the establishment, and to stiffen +her sister when necessary, and preserve in proper sharpness her +orthodoxy, both in theology and morals. + +Accordingly, both the girls left, and both knew the reason for +leaving. The druggist's faith was sorely tried. If Miss Pratt's had +been a worldly seminary he would have thought nothing of such +behaviour, but he did not expect it from one of the faithful. The +next Sunday morning after he received the news, he stayed at home out +of his turn to make up any medicines which might be urgently +required, and sent his assistant to church. + +As to Madge, she enjoyed her expulsion as a great joke, and her +Brighton experiences were the cause of much laughter. She had +learned a good deal while she was away from home, not precisely what +it was intended she should learn, and she came back with a strong, +insurgent tendency, which was even more noticeable when she returned +from Germany. Neither of the sisters lived at the school in Weimar, +but at the house of a lady who had been recommended to Mrs Hopgood, +and by this lady they were introduced to the great German classics. +She herself was an enthusiast for Goethe, whom she well remembered in +his old age, and Clara and Madge, each of them in turn, learned to +know the poet as they would never have known him in England. Even +the town taught them much about him, for in many ways it was +expressive of him and seemed as if it had shaped itself for him. It +was a delightful time for them. They enjoyed the society and +constant mental stimulus; they loved the beautiful park; not a +separate enclosure walled round like an English park, but suffering +the streets to end in it, and in summer time there were excursions +into the Thuringer Wald, generally to some point memorable in +history, or for some literary association. The drawback was the +contrast, when they went home, with Fenmarket, with its dulness and +its complete isolation from the intellectual world. At Weimar, in +the evening, they could see Egmont or hear Fidelio, or talk with +friends about the last utterance upon the Leben Jesu; but the +Fenmarket Egmont was a travelling wax-work show, its Fidelio psalm +tunes, or at best some of Bishop's glees, performed by a few of the +tradesfolk, who had never had an hour's instruction in music; and for +theological criticism there were the parish church and Ram Lane +Chapel. They did their best; they read their old favourites and +subscribed for a German as well as an English literary weekly +newspaper, but at times they were almost beaten. Madge more than +Clara was liable to depression. + +No Fenmarket maiden, other than the Hopgoods, was supposed to have +any connection whatever, or to have any capacity for any connection +with anything outside the world in which 'young ladies' dwelt, and if +a Fenmarket girl read a book, a rare occurrence, for there were no +circulating libraries there in those days, she never permitted +herself to say anything more than that it was 'nice,' or it was 'not +nice,' or she 'liked it' or did 'not like it;' and if she had +ventured to say more, Fenmarket would have thought her odd, not to +say a little improper. The Hopgood young women were almost entirely +isolated, for the tradesfolk felt themselves uncomfortable and +inferior in every way in their presence, and they were ineligible for +rectory and brewery society, not only because their father was merely +a manager, but because of their strange ways. Mrs Tubbs, the +brewer's wife, thought they were due to Germany. From what she knew +of Germany she considered it most injudicious, and even morally +wrong, to send girls there. She once made the acquaintance of a +German lady at an hotel at Tunbridge Wells, and was quite shocked. +She could see quite plainly that the standard of female delicacy must +be much lower in that country than in England. Mr Tubbs was sure Mrs +Hopgood must have been French, and said to his daughters, +mysteriously, 'you never can tell who Frenchwomen are.' + +'But, papa,' said Miss Tubbs, 'you know Mrs Hopgood's maiden name; we +found that out. It was Molyneux.' + +'Of course, my dear, of course; but if she was a Frenchwoman resident +in England she would prefer to assume an English name, that is to say +if she wished to be married.' + +Occasionally the Miss Hopgoods were encountered, and they confounded +Fenmarket sorely. On one memorable occasion there was a party at the +Rectory: it was the annual party into which were swept all the +unclassifiable odds-and-ends which could not be put into the two +gatherings which included the aristocracy and the democracy of the +place. Miss Clara Hopgood amazed everybody by 'beginning talk,' by +asking Mrs Greatorex, her hostess, who had been far away to Sidmouth +for a holiday, whether she had been to the place where Coleridge was +born, and when the parson's wife said she had not, and that she could +not be expected to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of an infidel, +Miss Hopgood expressed her surprise, and declared she would walk +twenty miles any day to see Ottery St Mary. Still worse, when +somebody observed that an Anti-Corn-Law lecturer was coming to +Fenmarket, and the parson's daughter cried 'How horrid!' Miss +Hopgood talked again, and actually told the parson that, so far as +she had read upon the subject--fancy her reading about the Corn- +Laws!--the argument was all one way, and that after Colonel Thompson +nothing new could really be urged. + +'What is so--' she was about to say 'objectionable,' but she +recollected her official position and that she was bound to be +politic--'so odd and unusual,' observed Mrs Greatorex to Mrs Tubbs +afterwards, 'is not that Miss Hopgood should have radical views. Mrs +Barker, I know, is a radical like her husband, but then she never +puts herself forward, nor makes speeches. I never saw anything quite +like it, except once in London at a dinner-party. Lady Montgomery +then went on in much the same way, but she was a baronet's wife; the +baronet was in Parliament; she received a good deal and was obliged +to entertain her guests.' + +Poor Clara! she was really very unobtrusive and very modest, but +there had been constant sympathy between her and her father, not the +dumb sympathy as between man and dog, but that which can manifest +itself in human fashion. + + + +CHAPTER III + + + +Clara and her father were both chess-players, and at the time at +which our history begins, Clara had been teaching Madge the game for +about six months. + +'Check!' said Clara. + +'Check! after about a dozen moves. It is of no use to go on; you +always beat me. I should not mind that if I were any better now than +when I started. It is not in me.' + +'The reason is that you do not look two moves ahead. You never say +to yourself, "Suppose I move there, what is she likely to do, and +what can I do afterwards?"' + +'That is just what is impossible to me. I cannot hold myself down; +the moment I go beyond the next move my thoughts fly away, and I am +in a muddle, and my head turns round. I was not born for it. I can +do what is under my nose well enough, but nothing more.' + +'The planning and the forecasting are the soul of the game. I should +like to be a general, and play against armies and calculate the +consequences of manoeuvres.' + +'It would kill me. I should prefer the fighting. Besides, +calculation is useless, for when I think that you will be sure to +move such and such a piece, you generally do not.' + +'Then what makes the difference between the good and the bad player?' + +'It is a gift, an instinct, I suppose.' + +'Which is as much as to say that you give it up. You are very fond +of that word instinct; I wish you would not use it.' + +'I have heard you use it, and say you instinctively like this person +or that.' + +'Certainly; I do not deny that sometimes I am drawn to a person or +repelled from him before I can say why; but I always force myself to +discover afterwards the cause of my attraction or repulsion, and I +believe it is a duty to do so. If we neglect it we are little better +than the brutes, and may grossly deceive ourselves.' + +At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Madge jumped up, +nearly over-setting the board, and rushed into the front room. It +was the four-horse coach from London, which, once a day, passed +through Fenmarket on its road to Lincoln. It was not the direct +route from London to Lincoln, but the Defiance went this way to +accommodate Fenmarket and other small towns. It slackened speed in +order to change horses at the 'Crown and Sceptre,' and as Madge stood +at the window, a gentleman on the box-seat looked at her intently as +he passed. In another minute he had descended, and was welcomed by +the landlord, who stood on the pavement. Clara meanwhile had taken +up a book, but before she had read a page, her sister skipped into +the parlour again, humming a tune. + +'Let me see--check, you said, but it is not mate.' + +She put her elbows on the table, rested her head between her hands, +and appeared to contemplate the game profoundly. + +'Now, then, what do you say to that?' + +It was really a very lucky move, and Clara, whose thoughts perhaps +were elsewhere, was presently most unaccountably defeated. Madge was +triumphant. + +'Where are all your deep-laid schemes? Baffled by a poor creature +who can hardly put two and two together.' + +'Perhaps your schemes were better than mine.' + +'You know they were not. I saw the queen ought to take that bishop, +and never bothered myself as to what would follow. Have you not lost +your faith in schemes?' + +'You are very much mistaken if you suppose that, because of one +failure, or of twenty failures, I would give up a principle.' + +'Clara, you are a strange creature. Don't let us talk any more about +chess.' + +Madge swept all the pieces with her hand into the box, shut it, +closed the board, and put her feet on the fender. + +'You never believe in impulses or in doing a thing just because here +and now it appears to be the proper thing to do. Suppose anybody +were to make love to you--oh! how I wish somebody would, you dear +girl, for nobody deserves it more--' Madge put her head caressingly +on Clara's shoulder and then raised it again. 'Suppose, I say, +anybody were to make love to you, would you hold off for six months +and consider, and consider, and ask yourself whether he had such and +such virtues, and whether he could make you happy? Would not that +stifle love altogether? Would you not rather obey your first +impression and, if you felt you loved him, would you not say "Yes"?' + +'Time is not everything. A man who is prompt and is therefore +thought to be hasty by sluggish creatures who are never half awake, +may in five minutes spend more time in consideration than his critics +will spend in as many weeks. I have never had the chance, and am not +likely to have it. I can only say that if it were to come to me, I +should try to use the whole strength of my soul. Precisely because +the question would be so important, would it be necessary to employ +every faculty I have in order to decide it. I do not believe in +oracles which are supposed to prove their divinity by giving no +reasons for their commands.' + +'Ah, well, _I_ believe in Shakespeare. His lovers fall in love at +first sight.' + +'No doubt they do, but to justify yourself you have to suppose that +you are a Juliet and your friend a Romeo. They may, for aught I +know, be examples in my favour. However, I have to lay down a rule +for my own poor, limited self, and, to speak the truth, I am afraid +that great men often do harm by imposing on us that which is +serviceable to themselves only; or, to put it perhaps more correctly, +we mistake the real nature of their processes, just as a person who +is unskilled in arithmetic would mistake the processes of anybody who +is very quick at it, and would be led away by them. Shakespeare is +much to me, but the more he is to me, the more careful I ought to be +to discover what is the true law of my own nature, more important to +me after all than Shakespeare's.' + +'Exactly. I know what the law of mine is. If a man were to present +himself to me, I should rely on that instinct you so much despise, +and I am certain that the balancing, see-saw method would be fatal. +It would disclose a host of reasons against any conclusion, and I +should never come to any.' + +Clara smiled. Although this impetuosity was foreign to her, she +loved it for the good which accompanied it. + +'You do not mean to say you would accept or reject him at once?' + +'No, certainly not. What I mean is that in a few days, perhaps in a +shorter time, something within me would tell me whether we were +suited to one another, although we might not have talked upon half-a- +dozen subjects.' + +'I think the risk tremendous.' + +'But there is just as much risk the other way. You would examine +your friend, catalogue him, sum up his beliefs, note his behaviour +under various experimental trials, and miserably fail, after all your +scientific investigation, to ascertain just the one important point +whether you loved him and could live with him. Your reason was not +meant for that kind of work. If a woman trusts in such matters to +the faculty by which, when she wishes to settle whether she is to +take this house or that, she puts the advantages of the larger back +kitchen on one side and the bigger front kitchen on the other, I pity +her.' + +Mrs Hopgood at this moment came downstairs and asked when in the name +of fortune they meant to have the tea ready. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + + +Frank Palmer, the gentleman whom we saw descend from the coach, was +the eldest son of a wholesale and manufacturing chemist in London. +He was now about five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a +partner, he had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for +his firm. The elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, something +more than a Whig in politics, and an enthusiastic member of the Broad +Church party, which was then becoming a power in the country. He was +well-to-do, living in a fine old red-brick house at Stoke Newington, +with half-a-dozen acres of ground round it, and, if Frank had been +born thirty years later, he would probably have gone to Cambridge or +Oxford. In those days, however, it was not the custom to send boys +to the Universities unless they were intended for the law, divinity +or idleness, and Frank's training, which was begun at St Paul's +school, was completed there. He lived at home, going to school in +the morning and returning in the evening. He was surrounded by every +influence which was pure and noble. Mr Maurice and Mr Sterling were +his father's guests, and hence it may be inferred that there was an +altar in the house, and that the sacred flame burnt thereon. Mr +Palmer almost worshipped Mr Maurice, and his admiration was not +blind, for Maurice connected the Bible with what was rational in his +friend. 'What! still believable: no need then to pitch it +overboard: here after all is the Eternal Word!' It can be imagined +how those who dared not close their eyes to the light, and yet clung +to that book which had been so much to their forefathers and +themselves, rejoiced when they were able to declare that it belonged +to them more than to those who misjudged them and could deny that +they were heretics. The boy's education was entirely classical and +athletic, and as he was quick at learning and loved his games, he +took a high position amongst his school-fellows. He was not +particularly reflective, but he was generous and courageous, +perfectly straightforward, a fair specimen of thousands of English +public-school boys. As he grew up, he somewhat disappointed his +father by a lack of any real interest in the subjects in which his +father was interested. He accepted willingly, and even +enthusiastically, the household conclusions on religion and politics, +but they were not properly his, for he accepted them merely as +conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often even a little +annoying to hear him express some free opinion on religious questions +in a way which showed that it was not a growth but something picked +up. Mr Palmer, senior, sometimes recoiled into intolerance and +orthodoxy, and bewildered his son who, to use one of his own phrases, +'hardly knew where his father was.' Partly the reaction was due to +the oscillation which accompanies serious and independent thought, +but mainly it was caused by Mr Palmer's discontent with Frank's +appropriation of a sentiment or doctrine of which he was not the +lawful owner. Frank, however, was so hearty, so affectionate, and so +cheerful, that it was impossible not to love him dearly. + +In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for the +'Crown and Sceptre' was his headquarters, and Madge was well enough +aware that she had been noticed. He had inquired casually who it was +who lived next door, and when the waiter told him the name, and that +Mr Hopgood was formerly the bank manager, Frank remembered that he +had often heard his father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in a bank +in London, as one of his best friends. He did not fail to ask his +father about this friend, and to obtain an introduction to the widow. +He had now brought it to Fenmarket, and within half an hour after he +had alighted, he had presented it. + +Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and the +welcome to Frank was naturally very warm. It was delightful to +connect earlier and happier days with the present, and she was proud +in the possession of a relationship which had lasted so long. Clara +and Madge, too, were both excited and pleased. To say nothing of +Frank's appearance, of his unsnobbish, deferential behaviour which +showed that he understood who they were and that the little house +made no difference to him, the girls and the mother could not resist +a side glance at Fenmarket and the indulgence of a secret +satisfaction that it would soon hear that the son of Mr Palmer, so +well known in every town round about, was on intimate terms with +them. + +Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of sympathetic +people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she was often +astonished at the witty things and even the wise things she said in +such company, although, when she was alone, so few things wise or +witty occurred to her. Like all persons who, in conversation, do not +so much express the results of previous conviction obtained in +silence as the inspiration of the moment, Madge dazzled everybody by +a brilliancy which would have been impossible if she had communicated +that which had been slowly acquired, but what she left with those who +listened to her, did not always seem, on reflection, to be so much as +it appeared to be while she was talking. Still she was very +charming, and it must be confessed that sometimes her spontaneity was +truer than the limitations of speech more carefully weighed. + +'What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? How I wish you would +come to London!' + +'I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached to it; I have +very few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the most convincing +reason, I could not afford it. Rent and living are cheaper here than +in town.' + +'Would you not like to live in London, Miss Hopgood?' + +Clara hesitated for a few seconds. + +'I am not sure--certainly not by myself. I was in London once for +six months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where I saw much +society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.' + +'To the scenery round Fenmarket,' interrupted Madge; 'it is so +romantic, so mountainous, so interesting in every way.' + +'I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. In London +nobody really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense in which +I should use the words. Men and women in London stand for certain +talents, and are valued often very highly for them, but they are +valued merely as representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, +I should not be satisfied with admiration or respect because of it. +No matter what admiration, or respect, or even enthusiasm I might +evoke, even if I were told that my services had been immense and that +life had been changed through my instrumentality, I should feel the +lack of quiet, personal affection, and that, I believe, is not common +in London. If I were famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of +the world for the love of a brother--if I had one--or a sister, who +perhaps had never heard what it was which had made me renowned.' + +'Certainly,' said Madge, laughing, 'for the love of SUCH a sister. +But, Mr Palmer, I like London. I like the people, just the people, +although I do not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing +about me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the country. I +never have a thought of my own down here. How should I? But in +London there is plenty of talk about all kinds of things, and I find +I too have something in me. It is true, as Clara says, that nobody +is anything particular to anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. +I do not want too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are +rather a burden. They involve profound and eternal attachment on my +part; and I have always to be at my best; such watchfulness and such +jealousy! I prefer a dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are +not so tight.' + +'Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of +laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.' + +Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too +much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were +present, and she therefore interrupted them. + +'Mr Palmer, you see both town and country--which do you prefer?' + +'Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in +the winter.' + +This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is +to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid +reason why he liked being in London in the winter. + +'Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his +taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.' + +'I am very fond of music. Have you heard "St Paul?" I was at +Birmingham when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it IS +lovely,' and he began humming 'Be thou faithful unto death.' + +Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to +be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request +amongst his father's friends at evening entertainments. He could +also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself +thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often +murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He had +lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who +was not very proud of his pupil. 'He is a talent,' said the Signor, +'and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a party, but a +musician? no!' and like all mere 'talents' Frank failed in his songs +to give them just what is of most value--just that which separates an +artistic performance from the vast region of well-meaning, +respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack +in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of +himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something +which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was +not the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful +in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven +was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which +the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into +raptures over the slow movement in the C minor Symphony, but no C +minor slow movement was discernible in his character. + +'What on earth can be found in "St Paul" which can be put to music?' +said Madge. 'Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned +into a duet!' + +'Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,' said her mother. + +'Well, mother,' said Clara, 'I am sure that some of the settings by +your divinity, Handel, are absurd. "For as in Adam all die" may be +true enough, and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always +tempted to laugh when I hear it.' + +Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe 'Be not afraid.' + +'Is that a bit of "St Paul"?' said Mrs Hopgood. + +'Yes, it goes like this,' and Frank went up to the little piano and +sang the song through. + +'There is no fault to be found with that,' said Madge, 'so far as the +coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but I do not care much +for oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, +and the main reason for selecting the Bible is that what is called +religious music may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, +is never quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical subject, +and, besides, you cannot have proper love songs in an oratorio, and +in them music is at its best.' + +Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter's extravagance, but she +was, nevertheless, a little uncomfortable. + +'Ah!' said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and he struck the +first two bars of 'Adelaide.' + +'Oh, please,' said Madge, 'go on, go on,' but Frank could not quite +finish it. + +She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, lay and +listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration in Mr Palmer's +voice not perceptible during his vision of the crown of life and of +fidelity to death. + +'Are you going to stay over Sunday?' inquired Mrs Hopgood. + +'I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday evening. My +father likes me to be at home on that day.' + +'Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?' + +'Oh, yes, a great friend.' + +'He is not High Church nor Low Church?' + +'No, not exactly.' + +'What is he, then? What does he believe?' + +'Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will be +burnt in a brimstone lake for ever.' + +'That is what he does not believe,' interposed Clara. + +'He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans who acted +up to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. I think +that is glorious, don't you?' + +'Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. What is there +in him which is positive? What has he distinctly won from the +unknown?' + +'Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful. +I do admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.' + +'If you do not go home on Saturday,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'we shall be +pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; we generally go +for a walk in the afternoon.' + +Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. Her +hair was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. It +grew rather low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her +temples, a mystery of shadow and dark recess. If it had been +electrical with the force of a strong battery and had touched him, he +could not have been more completely paralysed, and his half-erect +resolution to go back on Saturday was instantly laid flat. + +'Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,' looking at Madge and meeting her eyes, 'I +think it very likely I shall stay, and if I do I will most certainly +accept your kind invitation.' + + + +CHAPTER V + + + +Sunday morning came, and Frank, being in the country, considered +himself absolved from the duty of going to church, and went for a +long stroll. At half-past one he presented himself at Mrs Hopgood's +house. + +'I have had a letter from London,' said Clara to Frank, 'telling me a +most extraordinary story, and I should like to know what you think of +it. A man, who was left a widower, had an only child, a lovely +daughter of about fourteen years old, in whose existence his own was +completely wrapped up. She was subject at times to curious fits of +self-absorption or absence of mind, and while she was under their +influence she resembled a somnambulist rather than a sane human being +awake. Her father would not take her to a physician, for he dreaded +lest he should be advised to send her away from home, and he also +feared the effect which any recognition of her disorder might have +upon her. He believed that in obscure and half-mental diseases like +hers, it was prudent to suppress all notice of them, and that if he +behaved to her as if she were perfectly well, she would stand a +chance of recovery. Moreover, the child was visibly improving, and +it was probable that the disturbance in her health would be speedily +outgrown. One hot day he went out shopping with her, and he observed +that she was tired and strange in her manner, although she was not +ill, or, at least, not so ill as he had often before seen her. The +few purchases they had to make at the draper's were completed, and +they went out into the street. He took her hand-bag, and, in doing +so, it opened and he saw to his horror a white silk pocket- +handkerchief crumpled up in it, which he instantly recognised as one +which had been shown him five minutes before, but he had not bought. +The next moment a hand was on his shoulder. It was that of an +assistant, who requested that they would both return for a few +minutes. As they walked the half dozen steps back, the father's +resolution was taken. "I am sixty," he thought to himself, "and she +is fourteen." They went into the counting-house and he confessed +that he had taken the handkerchief, but that it was taken by mistake +and that he was about to restore it when he was arrested. The poor +girl was now herself again, but her mind was an entire blank as to +what she had done, and she could not doubt her father's statement, +for it was a man's handkerchief and the bag was in his hands. The +draper was inexorable, and as he had suffered much from petty thefts +of late, had determined to make an example of the first offender whom +he could catch. The father was accordingly prosecuted, convicted and +sentenced to imprisonment. When his term had expired, his daughter, +who, I am glad to say, never for an instant lost her faith in him, +went away with him to a distant part of the country, where they lived +under an assumed name. About ten years afterwards he died and kept +his secret to the last; but he had seen the complete recovery and +happy marriage of his child. It was remarkable that it never +occurred to her that she might have been guilty, but her father's +confession, as already stated, was apparently so sincere that she +could do nothing but believe him. You will wonder how the facts were +discovered. After his death a sealed paper disclosing them was +found, with the inscription, "Not to be opened during my daughter's +life, and if she should have children or a husband who may survive +her, it is to be burnt." She had no children, and when she died as +an old woman, her husband also being dead, the seal was broken.' + +'Probably,' said Madge, 'nobody except his daughter believed he was +not a thief. For her sake he endured the imputation of common +larceny, and was content to leave the world with only a remote chance +that he would ever be justified.' + +'I wonder,' said Frank, 'that he did not admit that it was his +daughter who had taken the handkerchief, and excuse her on the ground +of her ailment.' + +'He could not do that,' replied Madge. 'The object of his life was +to make as little of the ailment as possible. What would have been +the effect on her if she had been made aware of its fearful +consequences? Furthermore, would he have been believed? And then-- +awful thought, the child might have suspected him of attempting to +shield himself at her expense! Do you think you could be capable of +such sacrifice, Mr Palmer?' + +Frank hesitated. 'It would--' + +'The question is not fair, Madge,' said Mrs Hopgood, interrupting +him. 'You are asking for a decision when all the materials to make +up a decision are not present. It is wrong to question ourselves in +cold blood as to what we should do in a great strait; for the +emergency brings the insight and the power necessary to deal with it. +I often fear lest, if such-and-such a trial were to befall me, I +should miserably fail. So I should, furnished as I now am, but not +as I should be under stress of the trial.' + +'What is the use,' said Clara, 'of speculating whether we can, or +cannot, do this or that? It IS now an interesting subject for +discussion whether the lie was a sin.' + +'No,' said Madge, 'a thousand times no.' + +'Brief and decisive. Well, Mr Palmer, what do you say?' + +'That is rather an awkward question. A lie is a lie.' + +'But not,' broke in Madge, vehemently, 'to save anybody whom you +love. Is a contemptible little two-foot measuring-tape to be applied +to such an action as that?' + +'The consequences of such a philosophy, though, my dear,' said Mrs +Hopgood, 'are rather serious. The moment you dispense with a fixed +standard, you cannot refuse permission to other people to dispense +with it also.' + +'Ah, yes, I know all about that, but I am not going to give up my +instinct for the sake of a rule. Do what you feel to be right, and +let the rule go hang. Somebody, cleverer in logic than we are, will +come along afterwards and find a higher rule which we have obeyed, +and will formulate it concisely.' + +'As for my poor self,' said Clara, 'I do not profess to know, without +the rule, what is right and what is not. We are always trying to +transcend the rule by some special pleading, and often in virtue of +some fancied superiority. Generally speaking, the attempt is fatal.' + +'Madge,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'your dogmatic decision may have been +interesting, but it prevented the expression of Mr Palmer's opinion.' + +Madge bent forward and politely inclined her head to the embarrassed +Frank. + +'I do not know what to say. I have never thought much about such +matters. Is not what they call casuistry a science among Roman +Catholics? If I were in a difficulty and could not tell right from +wrong, I should turn Catholic, and come to you as my priest, Mrs +Hopgood.' + +'Then you would do, not what you thought right yourself, but what I +thought right. The worth of the right to you is that it is your +right, and that you arrive at it in your own way. Besides, you might +not have time to consult anybody. Were you never compelled to settle +promptly a case of this kind?' + +'I remember once at school, when the mathematical master was out of +the class-room, a boy named Carpenter ran up to the blackboard and +wrote "Carrots" on it. That was the master's nickname, for he was +red-haired. Scarcely was the word finished, when Carpenter heard him +coming along the passage. There was just time partially to rub out +some of the big letters, but CAR remained, and Carpenter was standing +at the board when "Carrots" came in. He was an excitable man, and he +knew very well what the boys called him. + +'"What have you been writing on the board, sir?" + +'"Carpenter, sir." + +'The master examined the board. The upper half of the second R was +plainly perceptible, but it might possibly have been a P. He turned +round, looked steadily at Carpenter for a moment, and then looked at +us. Carpenter was no favourite, but not a soul spoke. + +'"Go to your place, sir." + +'Carpenter went to his place, the letters were erased and the lesson +was resumed. I was greatly perplexed; I had acquiesced in a cowardly +falsehood. Carrots was a great friend of mine, and I could not bear +to feel that he was humbugged, so when we were outside I went up to +Carpenter and told him he was an infernal sneak, and we had a +desperate fight, and I licked him, and blacked both his eyes. I did +not know what else to do.' + +The company laughed. + +'We cannot,' said Madge, 'all of us come to terms after this fashion +with our consciences, but we have had enough of these discussions on +morality. Let us go out.' + +They went out, and, as some relief from the straight road, they +turned into a field as they came home, and walked along a footpath +which crossed the broad, deep ditches by planks. They were within +about fifty yards of the last and broadest ditch, more a dyke than a +ditch, when Frank, turning round, saw an ox which they had not +noticed, galloping after them. + +'Go on, go on,' he cried, 'make for the plank.' + +He discerned in an instant that unless the course of the animal could +be checked it would overtake them before the bridge could be reached. +The women fled, but Frank remained. He was in the habit of carrying +a heavy walking-stick, the end of which he had hollowed out in his +schooldays and had filled up with lead. Just as the ox came upon +him, it laid its head to the ground, and Frank, springing aside, +dealt it a tremendous, two-handed blow on the forehead with his +knobbed weapon. The creature was dazed, it stopped and staggered, +and in another instant Frank was across the bridge in safety. There +was a little hysterical sobbing, but it was soon over. + +'Oh, Mr Palmer,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'what presence of mind and what +courage! We should have been killed without you.' + +'The feat is not original, Mrs Hopgood. I saw it done by a tough +little farmer last summer on a bull that was really mad. There was +no ditch for him though, poor fellow, and he had to jump a hedge.' + +'You did not find it difficult,' said Madge, 'to settle your problem +when it came to you in the shape of a wild ox.' + +'Because there was nothing to settle,' said Frank, laughing; 'there +was only one thing to be done.' + +'So you believed, or rather, so you saw,' said Clara. 'I should have +seen half-a-dozen things at once--that is to say, nothing.' + +'And I,' said Madge, 'should have settled it the wrong way: I am +sure I should, even if I had been a man. I should have bolted.' + +Frank stayed to tea, and the evening was musical. He left about ten, +but just as the door had shut he remembered he had forgotten his +stick. He gave a gentle rap and Madge appeared. She gave him his +stick. + +'Good-bye again. Thanks for my life.' + +Frank cursed himself that he could not find the proper word. He knew +there was something which might be said and ought to be said, but he +could not say it. Madge held out her hand to him, he raised it to +his lips and kissed it, and then, astonished at his boldness, he +instantly retreated. He went to the 'Crown and Sceptre' and was soon +in bed, but not to sleep. Strange, that the moment we lie down in +the dark, images, which were half obscured, should become so +intensely luminous! Madge hovered before Frank with almost tangible +distinctness, and he felt his fingers moving in her heavy, voluptuous +tresses. Her picture at last became almost painful to him and shamed +him, so that he turned over from side to side to avoid it. He had +never been thrown into the society of women of his own age, for he +had no sister, and a fire was kindled within him which burnt with a +heat all the greater because his life had been so pure. At last he +fell asleep and did not wake till late in the morning. He had just +time to eat his breakfast, pay one more business visit in the town, +and catch the coach due at eleven o'clock from Lincoln to London. As +the horses were being changed, he walked as near as he dared venture +to the windows of the cottage next door, but he could see nobody. +When the coach, however, began to move, he turned round and looked +behind him, and a hand was waved to him. He took off his hat, and in +five minutes he was clear of the town. It was in sight a long way, +but when, at last, it disappeared, a cloud of wretchedness swept over +him as the vapour sweeps up from the sea. What was she doing? +talking to other people, existing for others, laughing with others! +There were miles between himself and Fenmarket. Life! what was life? +A few moments of living and long, dreary gaps between. All this, +however, is a vain attempt to delineate what was shapeless. It was +an intolerable, unvanquishable oppression. This was Love; this was +the blessing which the god with the ruddy wings had bestowed on him. +It was a relief to him when the coach rattled through Islington, and +in a few minutes had landed him at the 'Angel.' + + + +CHAPTER VI + + + +There was to be a grand entertainment in the assembly room of the +'Crown and Sceptre' in aid of the County Hospital. Mrs Martin, widow +of one of the late partners in the bank, lived in a large house near +Fenmarket, and still had an interest in the business. She was +distinctly above anybody who lived in the town, and she knew how to +show her superiority by venturing sometimes to do what her urban +neighbours could not possibly do. She had been known to carry +through the street a quart bottle of horse physic although it was +wrapped up in nothing but brown paper. On her way she met the +brewer's wife, who was more aggrieved than she was when Mrs Martin's +carriage swept past her in the dusty, narrow lane which led to the +Hall. Mrs Martin could also afford to recognise in a measure the +claims of education and talent. A gentleman came from London to +lecture in the town, and showed astonished Fenmarket an orrery and a +magic lantern with dissolving views of the Holy Land. The exhibition +had been provided in order to extinguish a debt incurred in repairing +the church, but the rector's wife, and the brewer's wife, after +consultation, decided that they must leave the lecturer to return to +his inn. Mrs Martin, however, invited him to supper. Of course she +knew Mr Hopgood well, and knew that he was no ordinary man. She knew +also something of Mrs Hopgood and the daughters, and that they were +no ordinary women. She had been heard to say that they were ladies, +and that Mr Hopgood was a gentleman; and she kept up a distant kind +of intimacy with them, always nodded to them whenever she met them, +and every now and then sent them grapes and flowers. She had +observed once or twice to Mrs Tubbs that Mr Hopgood was a remarkable +person, who was quite scientific and therefore did not associate with +the rest of the Fenmarket folk; and Mrs Tubbs was much annoyed, +particularly by a slight emphasis which she thought she detected in +the 'therefore,' for Mr Tubbs had told her that one of the smaller +London brewers, who had only about fifty public-houses, had refused +to meet at dinner a learned French chemist who had written books. +Mrs Martin could not make friends with the Hopgoods, nor enter the +cottage. It would have been a transgression of that infinitely fine +and tortuous line whose inexplicable convolutions mark off what is +forbidden to a society lady. Clearly, however, the Hopgoods could be +requested to co-operate at the 'Crown and Sceptre;' in fact, it would +be impolitic not to put some of the townsfolk on the list of patrons. +So it came about that Mrs Hopgood was included, and that she was made +responsible for the provision of one song and one recitation. For +the song it was settled that Frank Palmer should be asked, as he +would be in Fenmarket. Usually he came but once every half year, but +he had not been able, so he said, to finish all his work the last +time. The recitation Madge undertook. + +The evening arrived, the room was crowded and a dozen private +carriages stood in the 'Crown and Sceptre' courtyard. Frank called +for the Hopgoods. Mrs Hopgood and Clara sat with presentation +tickets in the second row, amongst the fashionable folk; Frank and +Madge were upon the platform. Frank was loudly applauded in 'Il Mio +Tesoro,' but the loudest applause of the evening was reserved for +Madge, who declaimed Byron's 'Destruction of Sennacherib' with much +energy. She certainly looked very charming in her red gown, +harmonising with her black hair. The men in the audience were +vociferous for something more, and would not be contented until she +again came forward. The truth is, that the wily young woman had +prepared herself beforehand for possibilities, but she artfully +concealed her preparation. Looking on the ground and hesitating, she +suddenly raised her head as if she had just remembered something, and +then repeated Sir Henry Wotton's 'Happy Life.' She was again greeted +with cheers, subdued so as to be in accordance with the character of +the poem, but none the less sincere, and in the midst of them she +gracefully bowed and retired. Mrs Martin complimented her warmly at +the end of the performance, and inwardly debated whether Madge could +be asked to enliven one of the parties at the Hall, and how it could, +at the same time, be made clear to the guests that she and her +mother, who must come with her, were not even acquaintances, properly +so called, but were patronised as persons of merit living in the town +which the Hall protected. Mrs Martin was obliged to be very careful. +She certainly was on the list at the Lord Lieutenant's, but she was +in the outer ring, and she was not asked to those small and select +little dinners which were given to Sir Egerton, the Dean of +Peterborough, Lord Francis, and his brother, the county member. She +decided, however, that she could make perfectly plain the conditions +upon which the Hopgoods would be present, and the next day she sent +Madge a little note asking her if she would 'assist in some +festivities' at the Hall in about two months' time, which were to be +given in celebration of the twenty-first birthday of Mrs Martin's +third son. The scene from the 'Tempest,' where Ferdinand and Miranda +are discovered playing chess, was suggested, and it was proposed that +Madge should be Miranda, and Mr Palmer Ferdinand. Mrs Martin +concluded with a hope that Mrs Hopgood and her eldest daughter would +'witness the performance.' + +Frank joyously consented, for amateur theatricals had always +attracted him, and in a few short weeks he was again at Fenmarket. +He was obliged to be there for three or four days before the +entertainment, in order to attend the rehearsals, which Mrs Martin +had put under the control of a professional gentleman from London, +and Madge and he were consequently compelled to make frequent +journeys to the Hall. + +At last the eventful night arrived, and a carriage was hired next +door to take the party. They drove up to the grand entrance and were +met by a footman, who directed Madge and Frank to their dressing- +rooms, and escorted Mrs Hopgood and Clara to their places in the +theatre. They had gone early in order to accommodate Frank and +Madge, and they found themselves alone. They were surprised that +there was nobody to welcome them, and a little more surprised when +they found that the places allotted to them were rather in the rear. +Presently two or three fiddlers were seen, who began to tune their +instruments. Then some Fenmarket folk and some of the well-to-do +tenants on the estate made their appearance, and took seats on either +side of Mrs Hopgood and Clara. Quite at the back were the servants. +At five minutes to eight the band struck up the overture to 'Zampa,' +and in the midst of it in sailed Mrs Martin and a score or two of +fashionably-dressed people, male and female. The curtain ascended +and Prospero's cell was seen. Alonso and his companions were +properly grouped, and Prospero began, - + + + 'Behold, Sir King, +The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.' + + +The audience applauded him vigorously when he came to the end of his +speech, but there was an instantaneous cry of 'hush!' when Prospero +disclosed the lovers. It was really very pretty. Miranda wore a +loose, simple, white robe, and her wonderful hair was partly twisted +into a knot, and partly strayed down to her waist. The dialogue +between the two was spoken with much dramatic feeling, and when +Ferdinand came to the lines - + + + 'Sir, she is mortal, +But by immortal Providence she's mine,' + + +old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs Hopgood, +cried out 'hear, hear!' but was instantly suppressed. + +He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed his +knees, grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, and +whispered, with his hand to his mouth, - + + +'And a precious lucky chap he is.' + + +Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the gods to +drop a blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was renewed, and +Boston again cried 'hear, hear!' without fear of check, she did not +applaud, for something told her that behind this stage show a drama +was being played of far more serious importance. + +The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the performers. It +rose, and they presented themselves, Alonso still holding the hands +of the happy pair. The cheering now was vociferous, more +particularly when a wreath was flung at the feet of the young +princess, and Ferdinand, stooping, placed it on her head. + +Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the +audience were treated to 'something light,' and roared with laughter +at a pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled a +young booby who was staying there, pitched him overboard; 'wondered +what he meant;' sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits, +and finished with a pas-seul. + +The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper, +and the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the +morning. On their way back, Clara broke out against the +juxtaposition of Shakespeare and such vulgarity. + +'Much better,' she said, 'to have left the Shakespeare out +altogether. The lesson of the sequence is that each is good in its +way, a perfectly hateful doctrine to me. + +Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially +Frank, who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very +temperate allowance. + +'But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must not be +too severe upon her.' + +There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; the word +'tastes,' for example, as if the difference between Miranda and the +chambermaid were a matter of 'taste.' She was annoyed too with +Frank's easy, cheery tones for she felt deeply what she said, and his +mitigation and smiling latitudinarianism were more exasperating than +direct opposition. + +'I am sure,' continued Frank, 'that if we were to take the votes of +the audience, Miranda would be the queen of the evening;' and he put +the crown which he had brought away with him on her head again. + +Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door of their +house. It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping out of the carriage +in a hurry, threw a shawl over her head, forgetting the wreath. It +fell into the gutter and was splashed with mud. Frank picked it up, +wiped it as well as he could with his pocket-handkerchief, took it +into the parlour and laid it on a chair. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + + +The next morning it still rained, a cold rain from the north-east, a +very disagreeable type of weather on the Fenmarket flats. Madge was +not awake until late, and when she caught sight of the grey sky and +saw her finery tumbled on the floor--no further use for it in any +shape save as rags--and the dirty crown, which she had brought +upstairs, lying on the heap, the leaves already fading, she felt +depressed and miserable. The breakfast was dull, and for the most +part all three were silent. Mrs Hopgood and Clara went away to begin +their housework, leaving Madge alone. + +'Madge,' cried Mrs Hopgood, 'what am I to do with this thing? It is +of no use to preserve it; it is dead and covered with dirt.' + +'Throw it down here.' + +She took it and rammed it into the fire. At that moment she saw +Frank pass. He was evidently about to knock, but she ran to the door +and opened it. + +'I did not wish to keep you waiting in the wet.' + +'I am just off but I could not help calling to see how you are. +What! burning your laurels, the testimony to your triumph?' + +'Triumph! rather transitory; finishes in smoke,' and she pushed two +or three of the unburnt leaves amongst the ashes and covered them +over. He stooped down, picked up a leaf, smoothed it between his +fingers, and then raised his eyes. They met hers at that instant, as +she lifted them and looked in his face. They were near one another, +and his hands strayed towards hers till they touched. She did not +withdraw; he clasped the hand, she not resisting; in another moment +his arms were round her, his face was on hers, and he was swept into +self-forgetfulness. Suddenly the horn of the coach about to start +awoke him, and he murmured the line from one of his speeches of the +night before - + + +'But by immortal Providence she's mine.' + + +She released herself a trifle, held her head back as if she desired +to survey him apart from her, so that the ecstasy of union might be +renewed, and then fell on his neck. + +The horn once more sounded, she let him out silently, and he was off. +Mrs Hopgood and Clara presently came downstairs. + +'Mr Palmer came in to bid you good-bye, but he heard the coach and +was obliged to rush away.' + +'What a pity,' said Mrs Hopgood, 'that you did not call us.' + +'I thought he would be able to stay longer.' + +The lines which followed Frank's quotation came into her head, - + + +'Sweet lord, you play me false.' + 'No, my dearest love, + I would not for the world.' + + +'An omen,' she said to herself; '"he would not for the world."' + +She was in the best of spirits all day long. When the housework was +over and they were quiet together, she said, - + +'Now, my dear mother and sister, I want to know how the performance +pleased you.' + +'It was as good as it could be,' replied her mother, 'but I cannot +think why all plays should turn upon lovemaking. I wonder whether +the time will ever come when we shall care for a play in which there +is no courtship.' + +'What a horrible heresy, mother,' said Madge. + +'It may be so; it may be that I am growing old, but it seems +astonishing to me sometimes that the world does not grow a little +weary of endless variations on the same theme.' + +'Never,' said Madge, 'as long as it does not weary of the thing +itself, and it is not likely to do that. Fancy a young man and a +young woman stopping short and exclaiming, "This is just what every +son of Adam and daughter of Eve has gone through before; why should +we proceed?" Besides, it is the one emotion common to the whole +world; we can all comprehend it. Once more, it reveals character. +In Hamlet and Othello, for example, what is interesting is not solely +the bare love. The natures of Hamlet and Othello are brought to +light through it as they would not have been through any other +stimulus. I am sure that no ordinary woman ever shows what she +really is, except when she is in love. Can you tell what she is from +what she calls her religion, or from her friends, or even from her +husband?' + +'Would it not be equally just to say women are more alike in love +than in anything else? Mind, I do not say alike, but more alike. Is +it not the passion which levels us all?' + +'Oh, mother, mother! did one ever hear such dreadful blasphemy? That +the loves, for example, of two such cultivated, exquisite creatures +as Clara and myself would be nothing different from those of the +barmaids next door?' + +'Well, at anyrate, I do not want to see MY children in love to +understand what they are--to me at least.' + +'Then, if you comprehend us so completely--and let us have no more +philosophy--just tell me, should I make a good actress? Oh! to be +able to sway a thousand human beings into tears or laughter! It must +be divine.' + +'No, I do not think you would,' replied Clara. + +'Why not, miss? YOUR opinion, mind, was not asked. Did I not act to +perfection last night?' + +'Yes.' + +'Then why are you so decisive?' + +'Try a different part some day. I may be mistaken.' + +'You are very oracular.' + +She turned to the piano, played a few chords, closed the instrument, +swung herself round on the music stool, and said she should go for a +walk. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + + +It was Mr Palmer's design to send Frank abroad as soon as he +understood the home trade. It was thought it would be an advantage +to him to learn something of foreign manufacturing processes. Frank +had gladly agreed to go, but he was now rather in the mood for delay. +Mr Palmer conjectured a reason for it, and the conjecture was +confirmed when, after two or three more visits to Fenmarket, +perfectly causeless, so far as business was concerned, Frank asked +for the paternal sanction to his engagement with Madge. Consent was +willingly given, for Mr Palmer knew the family well; letters passed +between him and Mrs Hopgood, and it was arranged that Frank's visit +to Germany should be postponed till the summer. He was now +frequently at Fenmarket as Madge's accepted suitor, and, as the +spring advanced, their evenings were mostly spent by themselves out +of doors. One afternoon they went for a long walk, and on their +return they rested by a stile. Those were the days when Tennyson was +beginning to stir the hearts of the young people in England, and the +two little green volumes had just become a treasure in the Hopgood +household. Mr Palmer, senior, knew them well, and Frank, hearing his +father speak so enthusiastically about them, thought Madge would like +them, and had presented them to her. He had heard one or two read +aloud at home, and had looked at one or two himself, but had gone no +further. Madge, her mother, and her sister had read and re-read +them. + +'Oh,' said Madge, 'for that Vale in Ida. Here in these fens how I +long for something that is not level! Oh, for the roar of - + + +"The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine +In cataract after cataract to the sea." + + +Go on with it, Frank.' + +'I cannot.' + +'But you know OEnone?' + +'I cannot say I do. I began it--' + +'Frank, how could you begin it and lay it down unfinished? Besides, +those lines are some of the first; you MUST remember - + + +"Behind the valley topmost Gargarus +Stands up and takes the morning."' + + +'No, I do not recollect, but I will learn them; learn them for your +sake.' + +'I do not want you to learn them for my sake.' + +'But I shall.' + +She had taken off her hat and his hand strayed to her neck. Her head +fell on his shoulder and she had forgotten his ignorance of OEnone. +Presently she awoke from her delicious trance and they moved +homewards in silence. Frank was a little uneasy. + +'I do greatly admire Tennyson,' he said. + +'What do you admire? You have hardly looked at him.' + +'I saw a very good review of him. I will look that review up, by the +way, before I come down again. Mr Maurice was talking about it.' + +Madge had a desire to say something, but she did not know what to +say, a burden lay upon her chest. It was that weight which presses +there when we are alone with those with whom we are not strangers, +but with whom we are not completely at home, and she actually found +herself impatient and half-desirous of solitude. This must be +criminal or disease, she thought to herself, and she forcibly +recalled Frank's virtues. She was so far successful that when they +parted and he kissed her, she was more than usually caressing, and +her ardent embrace, at least for the moment, relieved that unpleasant +sensation in the region of the heart. When he had gone she reasoned +with herself. What a miserable counterfeit of love, she argued, is +mere intellectual sympathy, a sympathy based on books! What did +Miranda know about Ferdinand's 'views' on this or that subject? Love +is something independent of 'views.' It is an attraction which has +always been held to be inexplicable, but whatever it may be it is not +'views.' She was becoming a little weary, she thought, of what was +called 'culture.' These creatures whom we know through Shakespeare +and Goethe are ghostly. What have we to do with them? It is idle +work to read or even to talk fine things about them. It ends in +nothing. What we really have to go through and that which goes +through it are interesting, but not circumstances and character +impossible to us. When Frank spoke of his business, which he +understood, he was wise, and some observations which he made the +other day, on the management of his workpeople, would have been +thought original if they had been printed. The true artist knows +that his hero must be a character shaping events and shaped by them, +and not a babbler about literature. Frank, also, was so susceptible. +He liked to hear her read to him, and her enthusiasm would soon be +his. Moreover, how gifted he was, unconsciously, with all that makes +a man admirable, with courage, with perfect unselfishness! How +handsome he was, and then his passion for her! She had read +something of passion, but she never knew till now what the white +intensity of its flame in a man could be. She was committed, too, +happily committed; it was an engagement. + +Thus, whenever doubt obtruded itself, she poured a self-raised tide +over it and concealed it. Alas! it could not be washed away; it was +a little sharp rock based beneath the ocean's depths, and when the +water ran low its dark point reappeared. She was more successful, +however, than many women would have been, for, although her interest +in ideas was deep, there was fire in her blood, and Frank's arm +around her made the world well nigh disappear; her surrender was +entire, and if Sinai had thundered in her ears she would not have +heard. She was destitute of that power, which her sister possessed, +of surveying herself from a distance. On the contrary, her emotion +enveloped her, and the safeguard of reflection on it was impossible +to her. + +As to Frank, no doubt ever approached him. He was intoxicated, and +beside himself. He had been brought up in a clean household, knowing +nothing of the vice by which so many young men are overcome, and +woman hitherto had been a mystery to him. Suddenly he found himself +the possessor of a beautiful creature, whose lips it was lawful to +touch and whose heartbeats he could feel as he pressed her to his +breast. It was permitted him to be alone with her, to sit on the +floor and rest his head on her knees, and he had ventured to capture +one of her slippers and carry it off to London, where he kept it +locked up amongst his treasures. If he had been drawn over Fenmarket +sluice in a winter flood he would not have been more incapable of +resistance. + +Every now and then Clara thought she discerned in Madge that she was +not entirely content, but the cloud-shadows swept past so rapidly and +were followed by such dazzling sunshine that she was perplexed and +hoped that her sister's occasional moodiness might be due to parting +and absence, or the anticipation of them. She never ventured to say +anything about Frank to Madge, for there was something in her which +forbade all approach from that side. Once when he had shown his +ignorance of what was so familiar to the Hopgoods, and Clara had +expected some sign of dissatisfaction from her sister, she appeared +ostentatiously to champion him against anticipated criticism. Clara +interpreted the warning and was silent, but, after she had left the +room with her mother in order that the lovers might be alone, she +went upstairs and wept many tears. Ah! it is a sad experience when +the nearest and dearest suspects that we are aware of secret +disapproval, knows that it is justifiable, throws up a rampart and +becomes defensively belligerent. From that moment all confidence is +at an end. Without a word, perhaps, the love and friendship of years +disappear, and in the place of two human beings transparent to each +other, there are two who are opaque and indifferent. Bitter, bitter! +If the cause of separation were definite disagreement upon conduct or +belief, we could pluck up courage, approach and come to an +understanding, but it is impossible to bring to speech anything which +is so close to the heart, and there is, therefore, nothing left for +us but to submit and be dumb. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + + +It was now far into June, and Madge and Frank extended their walks +and returned later. He had come down to spend his last Sunday with +the Hopgoods before starting with his father for Germany, and on the +Monday they were to leave London. + +Wordsworth was one of the divinities at Stoke Newington, and just +before Frank visited Fenmarket that week, he had heard the +Intimations of Immortality read with great fervour. Thinking that +Madge would be pleased with him if she found that he knew something +about that famous Ode, and being really smitten with some of the +passages in it, he learnt it, and just as they were about to turn +homewards one sultry evening he suddenly began to repeat it, and +declaimed it to the end with much rhetorical power. + +'Bravo!' said Madge, 'but, of all Wordsworth's poems, that is the one +for which I believe I care the least.' + +Frank's countenance fell. + +'Oh, me! I thought it was just what would suit you.' + +'No, not particularly. There are some noble lines in it; for example +- + + +"And custom lie upon thee with a weight, +Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!" + + +But the very title--Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of +Early Childhood--is unmeaning to me, and as for the verse which is in +everybody's mouth - + + +"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;" + + +and still worse the vision of "that immortal sea," and of the +children who "sport upon the shore," they convey nothing whatever to +me. I find though they are much admired by the clergy of the better +sort, and by certain religiously-disposed people, to whom thinking is +distasteful or impossible. Because they cannot definitely believe, +they fling themselves with all the more fervour upon these cloudy +Wordsworthian phrases, and imagine they see something solid in the +coloured fog.' + +It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, +but in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary to his usual +wont, was silent. There was something undiscovered in Madge, a +region which he had not visited and perhaps could not enter. She +discerned in an instant what she had done, and in an instant +repented. He had taken so much pains with a long piece of poetry for +her sake: was not that better than agreement in a set of +propositions? Scores of persons might think as she thought about the +ode, who would not spend a moment in doing anything to gratify her. +It was delightful also to reflect that Frank imagined she would +sympathise with anything written in that temper. She recalled what +she herself had said when somebody gave Clara a copy in 'Parian' of a +Greek statue, a thing coarse in outline and vulgar. Clara was about +to put it in a cupboard in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so +pathetically that the donor had in a measure divined what her sister +loved, and had done her best, although she had made a mistake, that +finally the statue was placed on the bedroom mantelpiece. Madge's +heart overflowed, and Frank had never attracted her so powerfully as +at that moment. She took his hand softly in hers. + +'Frank,' she murmured, as she bent her head towards him, 'it is +really a lovely poem.' + +Suddenly there was a flash of forked lightning at some distance, +followed in a few seconds by a roll of thunder increasing in +intensity until the last reverberation seemed to shake the ground. +They took refuge in a little barn and sat down. Madge, who was timid +and excited in a thunderstorm, closed her eyes to shield herself from +the glare. + +The tumult in the heavens lasted for nearly two hours and, when it +was over, Madge and Frank walked homewards without speaking a word +for a good part of the way. + +'I cannot, cannot go to-morrow,' he suddenly cried, as they neared +the town. + +'You SHALL go,' she replied calmly. + +'But, Madge, think of me in Germany, think what my dreams and +thoughts will be--you here--hundreds of miles between us.' + +She had never seen him so shaken with terror. + +'You SHALL go; not another word.' + +'I must say something--what can I say? My God, my God, have mercy on +me!' + +'Mercy! mercy!' she repeated, half unconsciously, and then rousing +herself, exclaimed, 'You shall not say it; I will not hear; now, +good-bye.' + +They had come to the door; he went inside; she took his face between +her hands, left one kiss on his forehead, led him back to the doorway +and he heard the bolts drawn. When he recovered himself he went to +the 'Crown and Sceptre' and tried to write a letter to her, but the +words looked hateful, horrible on the paper, and they were not the +words he wanted. He dared not go near the house the next morning, +but as he passed it on the coach he looked at the windows. Nobody +was to be seen, and that night he left England. + +'Did you hear,' said Clara to her mother at breakfast, 'that the +lightning struck one of the elms in the avenue at Mrs Martin's +yesterday evening and splintered it to the ground?' + + + +CHAPTER X + + + +In a few days Madge received the following letter:- + + +'FRANKFORT, O. M., +HOTEL WAIDENBUSCH. + +'My dearest Madge,--I do not know how to write to you. I have begun +a dozen letters but I cannot bring myself to speak of what lies +before me, hiding the whole world from me. Forgiveness! how is any +forgiveness possible? But Madge, my dearest Madge, remember that my +love is intenser than ever. What has happened has bound you closer +to me. I IMPLORE you to let me come back. I will find a thousand +excuses for returning, and we will marry. We had vowed marriage to +each other and why should not our vows be fulfilled? Marriage, +marriage AT ONCE. You will not, you CANNOT, no, you CANNOT, you must +see you cannot refuse. My father wishes to make this town his +headquarters for ten days. Write by return for mercy's sake.--Your +ever devoted + +'FRANK.' + + +The reply came only a day late. + + +'My dear Frank,--Forgiveness! Who is to be forgiven? Not you. You +believed you loved me, but I doubted my love, and I know now that no +true love for you exists. We must part, and part forever. Whatever +wrong may have been done, marriage to avoid disgrace would be a wrong +to both of us infinitely greater. I owe you an expiation; your +release is all I can offer, and it is insufficient. I can only plead +that I was deaf and blind. By some miracle, I cannot tell how, my +ears and eyes are opened, and I hear and see. It is not the first +time in my life that the truth has been revealed to me suddenly, +supernaturally, I may say, as if in a vision, and I know the +revelation is authentic. There must be no wavering, no half- +measures, and I absolutely forbid another letter from you. If one +arrives I must, for the sake of my own peace and resolution, refuse +to read it. You have simply to announce to your father that the +engagement is at an end, and give no reasons.--Your faithful friend + +'MADGE HOPGOOD.' + + +Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and it was +returned unopened. + +For a long time Frank was almost incapable of reflection. He dwelt +on an event which might happen, but which he dared not name; and if +it should happen! Pictures of his father, his home his father's +friends, Fenmarket, the Hopgood household, passed before him with +such wild rapidity and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if +the reins had dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away +to madness. + +He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the +imagination, tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise +schemes by which, although he was prohibited from writing to Madge, +he might obtain news of her. Her injunction might not be final. +There was but one hope for him, one possibility of extrication, one +necessity--their marriage. It MUST be. He dared not think of what +might be the consequences if they did not marry. + +Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of +the rupture, but one morning--nearly two months had now passed--Clara +did not appear at breakfast. + +'Clara is not here,' said Mrs Hopgood; 'she was very tired last +night, perhaps it is better not to disturb her.' + +'Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still sleeps.' + +Madge went upstairs, opened her sister's door noiselessly, saw that +she was not awake, and returned. When breakfast was over she rose, +and after walking up and down the room once or twice, seated herself +in the armchair by her mother's side. Her mother drew herself a +little nearer, and took Madge's hand gently in her own. + +'Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your mother?' + +'Nothing.' + +'Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? Do you not think +I ought to know something about such an event in the life of one so +close to me?' + +'I broke off the engagement: we were not suited to one another.' + +'I thought as much; I honour you; a thousand times better that you +should separate now than find out your mistake afterwards when it is +irrevocable. Thank God, He has given you such courage! But you must +have suffered--I know you must;' and she tenderly kissed her +daughter. + +'Oh, mother! mother!' cried Madge, 'what is the worst--at least to-- +you--the worst that can happen to a woman?' + +Mrs Hopgood did not speak; something presented itself which she +refused to recognise, but she shuddered. Before she could recover +herself Madge broke out again, - + +'It has happened to me; mother, your daughter has wrecked your peace +for ever!' + +'And he has abandoned you?' + +'No, no; I told you it was I who left him.' + +It was Mrs Hopgood's custom, when any evil news was suddenly +communicated to her, to withdraw at once if possible to her own room. +She detached herself from Madge, rose, and, without a word, went +upstairs and locked her door. The struggle was terrible. So much +thought, so much care, such an education, such noble qualities, and +they had not accomplished what ordinary ignorant Fenmarket mothers +and daughters were able to achieve! This fine life, then, was a +failure, and a perfect example of literary and artistic training had +gone the way of the common wenches whose affiliation cases figured in +the county newspaper. She was shaken and bewildered. She was +neither orthodox nor secular. She was too strong to be afraid that +what she disbelieved could be true, and yet a fatal weakness had been +disclosed in what had been set up as its substitute. She could not +treat her child as a sinner who was to be tortured into something +like madness by immitigable punishment, but, on the other hand, she +felt that this sorrow was unlike other sorrows and that it could +never be healed. For some time she was powerless, blown this way and +that way by contradictory storms, and unable to determine herself to +any point whatever. She was not, however, new to the tempest. She +had lived and had survived when she thought she must have gone down. +She had learned the wisdom which the passage through desperate +straits can bring. At last she prayed and in a few minutes a message +was whispered to her. She went into the breakfast-room and seated +herself again by Madge. Neither uttered a word, but Madge fell down +before her, and, with a great cry, buried her face in her mother's +lap. She remained kneeling for some time waiting for a rebuke, but +none came. Presently she felt smoothing hands on her head and the +soft impress of lips. So was she judged. + + + +CHAPTER XI + + + +It was settled that they should leave Fenmarket. Their departure +caused but little surprise. They had scarcely any friends, and it +was always conjectured that people so peculiar would ultimately find +their way to London. They were particularly desirous to conceal +their movements, and therefore determined to warehouse their +furniture in town, to take furnished apartments there for three +months, and then to move elsewhere. Any letters which might arrive +at Fenmarket for them during these three months would be sent to them +at their new address; nothing probably would come afterwards, and as +nobody in Fenmarket would care to take any trouble about them, their +trace would become obliterated. They found some rooms near Myddelton +Square, Pentonville, not a particularly cheerful place, but they +wished to avoid a more distant suburb, and Pentonville was cheap. +Fortunately for them they had no difficulty whatever in getting rid +of the Fenmarket house for the remainder of their term. + +For a little while London diverted them after a fashion, but the +absence of household cares told upon them. They had nothing to do +but to read and to take dismal walks through Islington and Barnsbury, +and the gloom of the outlook thickened as the days became shorter and +the smoke began to darken the air. Madge was naturally more +oppressed than the others, not only by reason of her temperament, but +because she was the author of the trouble which had befallen them. +Her mother and Clara did everything to sustain and to cheer her. +They possessed the rare virtue of continuous tenderness. The love, +which with many is an inspiration, was with them their own selves, +from which they could not be separated; a harsh word could not +therefore escape from them. It was as impossible as that there +should be any failure in the pressure with which the rocks press +towards the earth's centre. Madge at times was very far gone in +melancholy. How different this thing looked when it was close at +hand; when she personally was to be the victim! She had read about +it in history, the surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it +had been turned to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent +a charm to innumerable mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing +like the poetry or mythology, and threatened to ruin her own history +altogether. Nor would it be her own history solely, but more or less +that of her mother and sister. + +Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have been +concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would have found +her Redeemer and would have been comparatively at peace; she would +have acknowledged herself convicted of infinite sin, and hell would +have been opened before her, but above the sin and the hell she would +have seen the distinct image of the Mediator abolishing both. +Popular theology makes personal salvation of such immense importance +that, in comparison therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to +others of our misdeeds. The sense of cruel injustice to those who +loved her remained with Madge perpetually. + +To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; sometimes +her mother and sister went with her; sometimes she insisted on going +alone. One autumn morning, she found herself at Letherhead, the +longest trip she had undertaken, for there were scarcely any railways +then. She wandered about till she discovered a footpath which took +her to a mill-pond, which spread itself out into a little lake. It +was fed by springs which burst up through the ground. She watched at +one particular point, and saw the water boil up with such force that +it cleared a space of a dozen yards in diameter from every weed, and +formed a transparent pool just tinted with that pale azure which is +peculiar to the living fountains which break out from the bottom of +the chalk. She was fascinated for a moment by the spectacle, and +reflected upon it, but she passed on. In about three-quarters of an +hour she found herself near a church, larger than an ordinary village +church, and, as she was tired, and the gate of the church porch was +open, she entered and sat down. The sun streamed in upon her, and +some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the adjoining +open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and looked in her +face. The quiet was complete, and the air so still, that a yellow +leaf dropping here and there from the churchyard elms--just beginning +to turn--fell quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at +heart and despairing, she could not help being touched, and she +thought to herself how strange the world is--so transcendent both in +glory and horror; a world capable of such scenes as those before her, +and a world in which such suffering as hers could be; a world +infinite both ways. The porch gate was open because the organist was +about to practise, and in another instant she was listening to the +Kyrie from Beethoven's Mass in C. She knew it; Frank had tried to +give her some notion of it on the piano, and since she had been in +London she had heard it at St Mary's, Moorfields. She broke down and +wept, but there was something new in her sorrow, and it seemed as if +a certain Pity overshadowed her. + +She had barely recovered herself when she saw a woman, apparently +about fifty, coming towards her with a wicker basket on her arm. She +sat down beside Madge, put her basket on the ground, and wiped her +face with her apron. + +'Marnin' miss! its rayther hot walkin', isn't it? I've come all the +way from Darkin, and I'm goin' to Great Oakhurst. That's a longish +step there and back again; not that this is the nearest way, but I +don't like climbing them hills, and then when I get to Letherhead I +shall have a lift in a cart.' + +Madge felt bound to say something as the sunburnt face looked kind +and motherly. + +'I suppose you live at Great Oakhurst?' + +'Yes. I do: my husband, God bless him! he was a kind of foreman at +The Towers, and when he died I was left alone and didn't know what to +be at, as both my daughters were out and one married; so I took the +general shop at Great Oakhurst, as Longwood used to have, but it +don't pay for I ain't used to it, and the house is too big for me, +and there isn't nobody proper to mind it when I goes over to Darkin +for anything.' + +'Are you going to leave?' + +'Well, I don't quite know yet, miss, but I thinks I shall live with +my daughter in London. She's married a cabinetmaker in Great Ormond +Street: they let lodgings, too. Maybe you know that part?' + +'No, I do not.' + +'You don't live in London, then?' + +'Yes, I do. I came from London this morning.' + +'The Lord have mercy on us, did you though! I suppose, then, you're +a-visitin' here. I know most of the folk hereabouts.' + +'No: I am going back this afternoon.' + +Her interrogator was puzzled and her curiosity stimulated. Presently +she looked in Madge's face. + +'Ah! my poor dear, you'll excuse me, I don't mean to be forward, but +I see you've been a-cryin': there's somebody buried here.' + +'No.' + +That was all she could say. The walk from Letherhead, and the +excitement had been too much for her and she fainted. Mrs Caffyn, +for that was her name, was used to fainting fits. She was often 'a +bit faint' herself, and she instantly loosened Madge's gown, brought +out some smelling-salts and also a little bottle of brandy and water. +Something suddenly struck her. She took up Madge's hand: there was +no wedding ring on it. + +Presently her patient recovered herself. + +'Look you now, my dear; you aren't noways fit to go back to London +to-day. If you was my child you shouldn't do it for all the gold in +the Indies, no, nor you sha'n't now. I shouldn't have a wink of +sleep this night if I let you go, and if anything were to happen to +you it would be me as 'ud have to answer for it.' + +'But I must go; my mother and sister will not know what has become of +me.' + +'You leave that to me; I tell you again as you can't go. I've been a +mother myself, and I haven't had children for nothing. I was just a- +goin' to send a little parcel up to my daughter by the coach, and her +husband's a-goin' to meet it. She'd left something behind last week +when she was with me, and I thought I'd get a bit of fresh butter +here for her and put along with it. They make better butter in the +farm in the bottom there, than they do at Great Oakhurst. A note +inside now will get to your mother all right; you have a bit of +something to eat and drink here, and you'll be able to walk along of +me just into Letherhead, and then you can ride to Great Oakhurst; +it's only about two miles, and you can stay there all night.' + +Madge was greatly touched; she took Mrs Caffyn's hands in hers, +pressed them both and consented. She was very weary, and the stamp +on Mrs Caffyn's countenance was indubitable; it was evidently no +forgery, but of royal mintage. They walked slowly to Letherhead, and +there they found the carrier's cart, which took them to Great +Oakhurst. + + + +CHAPTER XII + + + +Mrs Caffyn's house was a roomy old cottage near the church, with a +bow-window in which were displayed bottles of 'suckers,' and of Day & +Martin's blacking, cotton stuffs, a bag of nuts and some mugs, cups +and saucers. Inside were salt butter, washing-blue, drapery, +treacle, starch, tea, tobacco and snuff, cheese, matches, bacon, and +a few drugs, such as black draught, magnesia, pills, sulphur, dill- +water, Dalby's Carminative, and steel-drops. There was also a small +stock of writing-paper, string and tin ware. A boy was behind the +counter. When Mrs Caffyn was out he always asked the customers who +desired any article, the sale of which was in any degree an art, to +call again when she returned. He went as far as those things which +were put up in packets, such as what were called 'grits' for making +gruel, and he was also authorised to venture on pennyworths of +liquorice and peppermints, but the sale of half-a-dozen yards of +cotton print was as much above him as the negotiation of a treaty of +peace would be to a messenger in the Foreign Office. In fact, +nobody, excepting children, went into the shop when Mrs Caffyn was +not to be seen there, and, if she had to go to Dorking or Letherhead +on business, she always chose the middle of the day, when the folk +were busy at their homes or in the fields. Poor woman! she was much +tried. Half the people who dealt with her were in her debt, but she +could not press them for her money. During winter-time they were +discharged by the score from their farms, but as they were not +sufficiently philosophic, or sufficiently considerate for their +fellows to hang or drown themselves, they were obliged to consume +food, and to wear clothes, for which they tried to pay by instalments +during spring, summer and autumn. Mrs Caffyn managed to make both +ends meet by the help of two or three pigs, by great economy, and by +letting some of her superfluous rooms. Great Oakhurst was not a show +place nor a Spa, but the Letherhead doctor had once recommended her +to a physician in London, who occasionally sent her a patient who +wanted nothing but rest and fresh air. She also, during the +shooting-season, was often asked to find a bedroom for visitors to +The Towers. + +She might have done better had she been on thoroughly good terms with +the parson. She attended church on Sunday morning with tolerable +regularity. She never went inside a dissenting chapel, and was not +heretical on any definite theological point, but the rector and she +were not friends. She had lived in Surrey ever since she was a +child, but she was not Surrey born. Both her father and mother came +from the north country, and migrated southwards when she was very +young. They were better educated than the southerners amongst whom +they came; and although their daughter had no schooling beyond what +was obtainable in a Surrey village of that time, she was +distinguished by a certain superiority which she had inherited or +acquired from her parents. She was never subservient to the rector +after the fashion of her neighbours; she never curtsied to him, and +if he passed and nodded she said 'Marnin', sir,' in just the same +tone as that in which she said it to the smallest of the Great +Oakhurst farmers. Her church-going was an official duty incumbent +upon her as the proprietor of the only shop in the parish. She had +nothing to do with church matters except on Sunday, and she even went +so far as to neglect to send for the rector when one of her children +lay dying. She was attacked for the omission, but she defended +herself. + +'What was the use when the poor dear was only seven year old? What +call was there for him to come to a blessed innocent like that? I +did tell him to look in when my husband was took, for I know as +before we were married there was something atween him and that gal +Sanders. He never would own up to me about it, and I thought as he +might to a clergyman, and, if he did, it would ease his mind and make +it a bit better for him afterwards; but, Lord! it warn't no use, for +he went off and we didn't so much as hear her name, not even when he +was a-wandering. I says to myself when the parson left, "What's the +good of having you?"' + +Mrs Caffyn was a Christian, but she was a disciple of St James rather +than of St Paul. She believed, of course, the doctrines of the +Catechism, in the sense that she denied none, and would have assented +to all if she had been questioned thereon; but her belief that +'faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone,' was something +very vivid and very practical. + +Her estimate, too, of the relative values of the virtues and of the +relative sinfulness of sins was original, and the rector therefore +told all his parishioners that she was little better than a heathen. +The common failings in that part of the country amongst the poor were +Saturday-night drunkenness and looseness in the relations between the +young men and young women. Mrs Caffyn's indignation never rose to +the correct boiling point against these crimes. The rector once +ventured to say, as the case was next door to her, - + +'It is very sad, is it not, Mrs Caffyn, that Polesden should be so +addicted to drink. I hope he did not disturb you last Saturday +night. I have given the constable directions to look after the +street more closely on Saturday evening, and if Polesden again +offends he must be taken up.' + +Mrs Caffyn was behind her own counter. She had just served a +customer with two ounces of Dutch cheese, and she sat down on her +stool. Being rather a heavy woman she always sat down when she was +not busy, and she never rose merely to talk. + +'Yes, it is sad, sir, and Polesden isn't no particular friend of +mine, but I tell you what's sad too, sir, and that's the way them +people are mucked up in that cottage. Why, their living room opens +straight on the road, and the wind comes in fit to blow your head +off, and when he goes home o' nights, there's them children a- +squalling, and he can't bide there and do nothing.' + +'I am afraid, though, Mrs Caffyn, there must be something radically +wrong with that family. I suppose you know all about the eldest +daughter?' + +'Yes, sir, I HAVE heard it: it wouldn't be Great Oakhurst if I +hadn't, but p'r'aps, sir, you've never been upstairs in that house, +and yet a house it isn't. There's just two sleeping-rooms, that's +all; it's shameful, it isn't decent. Well, that gal, she goes away +to service. Maybe, sir, them premises at the farm are also unbeknown +to you. In the back kitchen there's a broadish sort of shelf as Jim +climbs into o' nights, and it has a rail round it to keep you from a- +falling out, and there's a ladder as they draws up in the day as goes +straight up from that kitchen to the gal's bedroom door. It's +downright disgraceful, and I don't believe the Lord A'mighty would be +marciful to neither of US if we was tried like that.' + +Mrs Caffyn bethought herself of the 'us' and was afraid that even she +had gone a little too far; 'leastways, speaking for myself, sir,' she +added. + +The rector turned rather red, and repented his attempt to enlist Mrs +Caffyn. + +'If the temptations are so great, Mrs Caffyn, that is all the more +reason why those who are liable to them should seek the means which +are provided in order that they may be overcome. I believe the +Polesdens are very lax attendants at church, and I don't think they +ever communicated.' + +Mrs Polesden at that moment came in for an ounce of tea, and as Mrs +Caffyn rose to weigh it, the rector departed with a stiff 'good- +morning,' made to do duty for both women. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + + +Mrs Caffyn persuaded Madge to go to bed at once, after giving her +'something to comfort her.' In the morning her kind hostess came to +her bedside. + +'You've got a mother, haven't you--leastways, I know you have, +because you wrote to her.' + +'Yes.' + +'Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?' + +'Yes.' + +'And she's fond of you, maybe?' + +'Oh, yes.' + +'That's a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back in the cart to +Letherhead, and you'll catch the Darkin coach to London.' + +'You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?' + +'Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would just look as +if I'd trapped you here to get something out of you. Pay! no, not a +penny.' + +'I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will not offer +anything. I don't know how to thank you enough.' + +Madge took Mrs Caffyn's hand in hers and pressed it firmly. + +'Besides, my dear,' said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets a little, +'you won't mind my saying it, I expex you are in trouble. There's +something on your mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it +is.' + +Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; Mrs +Caffyn sat between her and the window. + +'Look you here, my dear; don't you suppose I meant to say anything to +hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed to you like; I +couldn't help it. I see'd what was the matter, but I was all the +more drawed, and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference. +That's like me; sometimes I'm drawed that way and sometimes t'other +way, and it's never no use for me to try to go against it. I ain't +a-going to say anything more to you; God-A'mighty, He's above us all; +but p'r'aps you may be comm' this way again some day, and then you'll +look in.' + +Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs Caffyn's hand, +but was silent. + +The next morning, after Madge's return, Mrs Cork, the landlady, +presented herself at the sitting-room door and 'wished to speak with +Mrs Hopgood for a minute.' + +'Come in, Mrs Cork.' + +'Thank you, ma'am, but I prefer as you should come downstairs.' + +Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She had a face +of which it was impossible to recollect, when it had been seen even a +dozen times, any feature except the eyes, which were steel-blue, a +little bluer than the faceted head of the steel poker in her parlour, +but just as hard. She lived in the basement with a maid, much like +herself but a little more human. Although the front underground room +was furnished Mrs Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions, +and a kind of apron of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly +all the year. She was a woman of what she called regular habits. No +lodger was ever permitted to transgress her rules, or to have meals +ten minutes before or ten minutes after the appointed time. She had +undoubtedly been married, but who Cork could have been was a marvel. +Why he died, and why there were never any children were no marvels. +At two o'clock her grate was screwed up to the narrowest possible +dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves and cabbage +stalks were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. No meat, by the +way, was ever roasted--it was considered wasteful--everything was +baked or boiled. After half-past four not a bit of anything that was +not cold was allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the +first of April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out +the moment tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very well and +Clara wished to give her mother something warm. She rang the bell +and asked for hot water. Maria came up and disappeared without a +word after receiving the message. Presently she returned. + +'Mrs Cork, miss, wishes me to tell you as it was never understood as +'ot water would be required after tea, and she hasn't got any.' + +Mrs Hopgood had a fire, although it was not yet the thirty-first of +October, for it was very damp and raw. She had with much difficulty +induced Mrs Cork to concede this favour (which probably would not +have been granted if the coals had not yielded a profit of threepence +a scuttleful), and Clara, therefore, asked if she could not have the +kettle upstairs. Again Maria disappeared and returned. + +'Mrs Cork says, miss, as it's very ill-convenient as the kettle is +cleaned up agin to-morrow, and if you can do without it she will be +obliged.' + +It was of no use to continue the contest, and Clara bethought herself +of a little 'Etna' she had in her bedroom. She went to the +druggist's, bought some methylated spirit, and obtained what she +wanted. + +Mrs Cork had one virtue and one weakness. Her virtue was +cleanliness, but she persecuted the 'blacks,' not because she +objected to dirt as dirt, but because it was unauthorised, appeared +without permission at irregular hours, and because the glittering +polish on varnished paint and red mahogany was a pleasure to her. +She liked the dirt, too, in a way, for she enjoyed the exercise of +her ill-temper on it and the pursuit of it to destruction. Her +weakness was an enormous tom-cat which had a bell round its neck and +slept in a basket in the kitchen, the best-behaved and most moral cat +in the parish. At half-past nine every evening it was let out into +the back-yard and vanished. At ten precisely it was heard to mew and +was immediately admitted. Not once in a twelvemonth did that cat +prolong its love making after five minutes to ten. + +Mrs Hopgood went upstairs to her room, Mrs Cork following and closing +the door. + +'If you please, ma'am, I wish to give you notice to leave this day +week.' + +'What is the matter, Mrs Cork?' + +'Well, ma'am, for one thing, I didn't know as you'd bring a bird with +you.' + +It was a pet bird belonging to Madge. + +'But what harm does the bird do? It gives no trouble; my daughter +attends to it.' + +'Yes, ma'am, but it worrits my Joseph--the cat, I mean. I found him +the other mornin' on the table eyin' it, and I can't a-bear to see +him urritated.' + +'I should hardly have thought that a reason for parting with good +lodgers.' + +Mrs Hopgood had intended to move, as before explained, but she did +not wish to go till the three months had expired. + +'I don't say as that is everything, but if you wish me to tell you +the truth, Miss Madge is not a person as I like to keep in the house. +I wish you to know'--Mrs Cork suddenly became excited and venomous-- +'that I'm a respectable woman, and have always let my apartments to +respectable people, and do you think I should ever let them to +respectable people again if it got about as I had had anybody as +wasn't respectable? Where was she last night? And do you suppose as +me as has been a married woman can't see the condition she's in? I +say as you, Mrs Hopgood, ought to be ashamed of yourself for bringing +of such a person into a house like mine, and you'll please vacate +these premises on the day named.' She did not wait for an answer, +but banged the door after her, and went down to her subterranean den. + +Mrs Hopgood did not tell her children the true reason for leaving. +She merely said that Mrs Cork had been very impertinent, and that +they must look out for other rooms. Madge instantly recollected +Great Ormond Street, but she did not know the number, and oddly +enough she had completely forgotten Mrs Caffyn's name. It was a +peculiar name, she had heard it only once, she had not noticed it +over the door, and her exhaustion may have had something to do with +her loss of memory. She could not therefore write, and Mrs Hopgood +determined that she herself would go to Great Oakhurst. She had +another reason for her journey. She wished her kind friend there to +see that Madge had really a mother who cared for her. She was +anxious to confirm Madge's story, and Mrs Caffyn's confidence. Clara +desired to go also, but Mrs Hopgood would not leave Madge alone, and +the expense of a double fare was considered unnecessary. + +When Mrs Hopgood came to Letherhead on her return, the coach was full +inside, and she was obliged to ride outside, although the weather was +cold and threatening. In about half an hour it began to rain +heavily, and by the time she was in Pentonville she was wet through. +The next morning she ought to have lain in bed, but she came down at +her accustomed hour as Mrs Cork was more than usually disagreeable, +and it was settled that they would leave at once if the rooms in +Great Ormond Street were available. Clara went there directly after +breakfast, and saw Mrs Marshall, who had already received an +introductory letter from her mother. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + + +The Marshall family included Marshall and his wife. He was rather a +small man, with blackish hair, small lips, and with a nose just a +little turned up at the tip. As we have been informed, he was a +cabinet-maker. He worked for very good shops, and earned about two +pounds a week. He read books, but he did not know their value, and +often fancied he had made a great discovery on a bookstall of an +author long ago superseded and worthless. He belonged to a +mechanic's institute, and was fond of animal physiology; heard +courses of lectures on it at the institute, and had studied two or +three elementary handbooks. He found in a second-hand dealer's shop +a model, which could be taken to pieces, of the inside of the human +body. He had also bought a diagram of a man, showing the +circulation, and this he had hung in his bedroom, his mother-in-law +objecting most strongly on the ground that its effect on his wife was +injurious. He had a notion that the world might be regenerated if +men and women were properly instructed in physiological science, and +if before marriage they would study their own physical peculiarities, +and those of their intended partners. The crossing of peculiarities +nevertheless presented difficulties. A man with long legs surely +ought to choose a woman with short legs, but if a man who was +mathematical married a woman who was mathematical, the result might +be a mathematical prodigy. On the other hand the parents of the +prodigy might each have corresponding qualities, which, mixed with +the mathematical tendency, would completely nullify it. The path of +duty therefore was by no means plain. However, Marshall was sure +that great cities dwarfed their inhabitants, and as he himself was +not so tall as his father, and, moreover, suffered from bad +digestion, and had a tendency to 'run to head,' he determined to +select as his wife a 'daughter of the soil,' to use his own phrase, +above the average height, with a vigorous constitution and plenty of +common sense. She need not be bookish, 'he could supply all that +himself.' Accordingly, he married Sarah Caffyn. His mother and Mrs +Caffyn had been early friends. He was not mistaken in Sarah. She +was certainly robust; she was a shrewd housekeeper, and she never +read anything, except now and then a paragraph or two in the weekly +newspaper, notwithstanding (for there were no children), time hung +rather heavily on her hands. One child had been born, but to +Marshall's surprise and disappointment it was a poor, rickety thing, +and died before it was a twelvemonth old. + +Mrs Marshall was not a very happy woman. Marshall was a great +politician and spent many of his evenings away from home at political +meetings. He never informed her what he had been doing, and if he +had told her, she would neither have understood nor cared anything +about it. At Great Oakhurst she heard everything and took an +interest in it, and she often wished with all her heart that the +subject which occupied Marshall's thoughts was not Chartism but the +draining of that heavy, rush-grown bit of rough pasture that lay at +the bottom of the village. He was very good and kind to her, and she +never imagined, before marriage, that he ought to be more. She was +sure that at Great Oakhurst she would have been quite comfortable +with him but somehow, in London, it was different. 'I don't know how +it is,' she said one day, 'the sort of husband as does for the +country doesn't do for London.' + +At Great Oakhurst, where the doors were always open into the yard and +the garden, where every house was merely a covered bit of the open +space, where people were always in and out, and women never sat down, +except to their meals, or to do a little stitching or sewing, it was +really not necessary, as Mrs Caffyn observed, that husband and wife +should 'hit it so fine.' Mrs Marshall hated all the conveniences of +London. She abominated particularly the taps, and longed to be +obliged in all weathers to go out to the well and wind up the bucket. +She abominated also the dust-bin, for it was a pleasure to be +compelled--so at least she thought it now--to walk down to the muck- +heap and throw on it what the pig could not eat. Nay, she even +missed that corner of the garden against the elder-tree, where the +pig-stye was, for 'you could smell the elder-flowers there in the +spring-time, and the pig-stye wasn't as bad as the stuffy back room +in Great Ormond Street when three or four men were in it.' She did +all she could to spend her energy on her cooking and cleaning, but +'there was no satisfaction in it,' and she became much depressed, +especially after the child died. This was the main reason why Mrs +Caffyn determined to live with her. Marshall was glad she resolved +to come. His wife had her full share of the common sense he desired, +but the experiment had not altogether succeeded. He knew she was +lonely, and he was sorry for her, although he did not see how he +could mend matters. He reflected carefully, nothing had happened +which was a surprise to him, the relationship was what he had +supposed it would be, excepting that the child did not live and its +mother was a little miserable. There was nothing he would not do for +her, but he really had nothing more to offer her. + +Although Mrs Marshall had made up her mind that husbands and wives +could not be as contented with one another in the big city as they +would be in a village, a suspicion crossed her mind one day that, +even in London, the relationship might be different from her own. +She was returning from Great Oakhurst after a visit to her mother. +She had stayed there for about a month after her child's death, and +she travelled back to town with a Letherhead woman, who had married a +journeyman tanner, who formerly worked in the Letherhead tan-yard, +and had now moved to Bermondsey, a horrid hole, worse than Great +Ormond Street. Both Marshall and the tanner were at the 'Swan with +Two Necks' to meet the covered van, and the tanner's wife jumped out +first. + +'Hullo, old gal, here you are,' cried the tanner, and clasped her in +his brown, bark-stained arms, giving her, nothing loth, two or three +hearty kisses. They were so much excited at meeting one another, +that they forgot their friends, and marched off without bidding them +good-bye. Mrs Marshall was welcomed in quieter fashion. + +'Ah!' she thought to herself. 'Red Tom,' as the tanner was called, +'is not used to London ways. They are, perhaps, correct for London, +but Marshall might now and then remember that I have not been brought +up to them.' + +To return, however, to the Hopgoods. Before the afternoon they were +in their new quarters, happily for them, for Mrs Hopgood became +worse. On the morrow she was seriously ill, inflammation of the +lungs appeared, and in a week she was dead. What Clara and Madge +suffered cannot be told here. Whenever anybody whom we love dies, we +discover that although death is commonplace it is terribly original. +We may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to +us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are entirely +unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss so much as the +strength of the bond which is broken that is the surprise, and we are +debtors in a way to death for revealing something in us which +ordinary life disguises. Long after the first madness of their grief +had passed, Clara and Madge were astonished to find how dependent +they had been on their mother. They were grown-up women accustomed +to act for themselves, but they felt unsteady, and as if deprived of +customary support. The reference to her had been constant, although +it was often silent, and they were not conscious of it. A defence +from the outside waste desert had been broken down, their mother had +always seemed to intervene between them and the world, and now they +were exposed and shelterless. + +Three parts of Mrs Hopgood's little income was mainly an annuity, and +Clara and Madge found that between them they had but seventy-five +pounds a year. + + + +CHAPTER XV + + + +Frank could not rest. He wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; the +letter went to Mrs Cork's, and was returned to him. He saw that the +Hopgoods had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, he determined +at any cost to go home. He accordingly alleged ill-health, a pretext +not altogether fictitious, and within a few days after the returned +letter reached him he was back at Stoke Newington. He went +immediately to the address in Pentonville which he found on the +envelope, but was very shortly informed by Mrs Cork that 'she knew +nothing whatever about them.' He walked round Myddelton Square, +hopeless, for he had no clue whatever. + +What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused some +young men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was altogether +different. There was a chance of discovery, and if his crime should +come to light his whole future life would be ruined. He pictured his +excommunication, his father's agony, and it was only when it seemed +possible that the water might close over the ghastly thing thrown in +it, and no ripple reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to +breathe again. Immediately he asked himself, however, IF he could +live with his father and wear a mask, and never betray his dreadful +secret. So he wandered homeward in the most miserable of all +conditions; he was paralysed by the intricacy of the coil which +enveloped and grasped him. + +That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his +father's house; and, of course, he was expected to assist. It would +have suited his mood better if he could have been in his own room, or +out in the streets, but absence would have been inconsistent with his +disguise, and might have led to betrayal. Consequently he was +present, and the gaiety of the company and the excitement of his +favourite exercise, brought about for a time forgetfulness of his +trouble. Amongst the performers was a distant cousin, Cecilia +Morland, a young woman rather tall and fully developed; not +strikingly beautiful, but with a lovely reddish-brown tint on her +face, indicative of healthy, warm, rich pulsations. She possessed a +contralto voice, of a quality like that of a blackbird, and it fell +to her and to Frank to sing. She was dressed in a fashion perhaps a +little more courtly than was usual in the gatherings at Mr Palmer's +house, and Frank, as he stood beside her at the piano, could not +restrain his eyes from straying every now and then a way from his +music to her shoulders, and once nearly lost himself, during a solo +which required a little unusual exertion, in watching the movement of +a locket and of what was for a moment revealed beneath it. He +escorted her amidst applause to a corner of the room, and the two sat +down side by side. + +'What a long time it is, Frank, since you and I sang that duet +together. We have seen nothing of you lately.' + +'Of course not; I was in Germany.' + +'Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do you remember that +summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, and the part songs +which astonished our neighbours just as it was growing dark? I +recollect you and I tried together that very duet for the first time +with the old lodging-house piano.' + +Frank remembered that evening well. + +'You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep time: what +were you dreaming about?' + +'How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? Let us go into +the conservatory for a minute.' + +The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just +inside, and under the orange tree. + +'You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical +evening this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must +sing that duet again, and sing it properly.' + +He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, +and gave it to her. + +'That is a pledge. It is very good of you.' + +She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she +dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it; +rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head +nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily. + +'We had better go back now,' she said, 'but mind, I shall keep this +flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall +return it faded and withered.' + +'Yes, I will come.' + +'Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. No bad +throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke for you--a +dead flower.' + +PLAY ME FALSE! It was as if there were some stoppage in a main +artery to his brain. PLAY ME FALSE! It rang in his ears, and for a +moment he saw nothing but the scene at the Hall with Miranda. +Fortunately for him, somebody claimed Cecilia, and he slunk back into +the greenhouse. + +One of Mr Palmer's favourite ballads was The Three Ravens. Its +pathos unfits it for an ordinary drawing-room, but as the music at Mr +Palmer's was not of the common kind, The Three Ravens was put on the +list for that night. + + +'She was dead herself ere evensong time. With a down, hey down, hey +down, +God send every gentleman +Such hawks, such hounds, and such a leman. With down, hey down, hey +down.' + + +Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he +painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in +a mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for him +stood next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out into the +garden and went down to the further end, hiding himself behind the +shrubs. Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by +hearing an instrumental piece begin. + +Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for his +unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he considered to be +his duty. He recalled with an effort all Madge's charms, mental and +bodily, and he tried to break his heart for her. He was in anguish +because he found that in order to feel as he ought to feel some +effort was necessary; that treason to her was possible, and because +he had looked with such eyes upon his cousin that evening. He saw +himself as something separate from himself, and although he knew what +he saw to be flimsy and shallow, he could do nothing to deepen it, +absolutely nothing! It was not the betrayal of that thunderstorm +which now tormented him. He could have represented that as a failure +to be surmounted; he could have repented it. It was his own inner +being from which he revolted, from limitations which are worse than +crimes, for who, by taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature? + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + + +The next morning found Frank once more in Myddelton Square. He +looked up at the house; the windows were all shut, and the blinds +were drawn down. He had half a mind to call again, but Mrs Cork's +manner had been so offensive and repellent that he desisted. +Presently the door opened, and Maria, the maid, came out to clean the +doorsteps. Maria, as we have already said, was a little more human +than her mistress, and having overheard the conversation between her +and Frank at the first interview, had come to the conclusion that +Frank was to be pitied, and she took a fancy to him. Accordingly, +when he passed her, she looked up and said,--'Good-morning.' Frank +stopped, and returned her greeting. + +'You was here the other day, sir, asking where them Hopgoods had +gone.' + +'Yes,' said Frank, eagerly, 'do you know what has become of them?' + +'I helped the cabman with the boxes, and I heard Mrs Hopgood say +"Great Ormond Street," but I have forgotten the number.' + +'Thank you very much.' + +Frank gave the astonished and grateful Maria half-a-crown, and went +off to Great Ormond Street at once. He paced up and down the street +half a dozen times, hoping he might recognise in a window some +ornament from Fenmarket, or perhaps that he might be able to +distinguish a piece of Fenmarket furniture, but his search was in +vain, for the two girls had taken furnished rooms at the back of the +house. His quest was not renewed that week. What was there to be +gained by going over the ground again? Perhaps they might have found +the lodgings unsuitable and have moved elsewhere. At church on +Sunday he met his cousin Cecilia, who reminded him of his promise. + +'See,' she said, 'here is the begonia. I put it in my prayer-book in +order to preserve it when I could keep it in water no longer, and it +has stained the leaf, and spoilt the Athanasian Creed. You will have +it sent to you if you are faithless. Reflect on your emotions, sir, +when you receive a dead flower, and you have the bitter consciousness +also that you have damaged my creed without any recompense.' + +It was impossible not to protest that he had no thought of breaking +his engagement, although, to tell the truth, he had wished once or +twice he could find some way out of it. He walked with her down the +churchyard path to her carriage, assisted her into it, saluted her +father and mother, and then went home with his own people. + +The evening came, he sang with Cecilia, and it was observed, and he +himself observed it, how completely their voices harmonised. He was +not without a competitor, a handsome young baritone, who was much +commended. When he came to the end of his performance everybody said +what a pity it was that the following duet could not also be given, a +duet which Cecilia knew perfectly well. She was very much pressed to +take her part with him, but she steadily refused, on the ground that +she had not practised it, that she had already sung once, and that +she was engaged to sing once more with her cousin. Frank was sitting +next to her, and she added, so as to be heard by him alone, 'He is no +particular favourite of mine.' + +There was no direct implication that Frank was a favourite, but an +inference was possible, and at least it was clear that she preferred +to reserve herself for him. Cecilia's gifts, her fortune, and her +gay, happy face had made many a young fellow restless, and had +brought several proposals, none of which had been accepted. All this +Frank knew, and how could he repress something more than satisfaction +when he thought that perhaps he might have been the reason why nobody +as yet had been able to win her. She always called him Frank, for +although they were not first cousins, they were cousins. He +generally called her Cecilia, but she was Cissy in her own house. He +was hardly close enough to venture upon the more familiar nickname, +but to-night, as they rose to go to the piano, he said, and the +baritone sat next to her, - + +'Now, CISSY, once more.' + +She looked at him with just a little start of surprise, and a smile +spread itself over her face. After they had finished, and she never +sang better, the baritone noticed that she seemed indisposed to +return to her former place, and she retired with Frank to the +opposite corner of the room. + +'I wonder,' she said, 'if being happy in a thing is a sign of being +born to do it. If it is, I am born to be a musician.' + +'I should say it is; if two people are quite happy in one another's +company, it is as a sign they were born for one another.' + +'Yes, if they are sure they are happy. It is easier for me to be +sure that I am happier with a thing than with a person.' + +'Do you think so? Why?' + +'There is the uncertainty whether the person is happy with me. I +cannot be altogether happy with anybody unless I know I make him +happy.' + +'What kind of person is he with whom you COULD be without making him +happy?' + +The baritone rose to the upper F with a clash of chords on the piano, +and the company broke up. Frank went home with but one thought in +his head--the thought of Cecilia. + +His bedroom faced the south-west, its windows were open, and when he +entered, the wind, which was gradually rising, struck him on the face +and nearly forced the door out of his hand; the fire in his blood was +quenched, and the image of Cecilia receded. He looked out, and saw +reflected on the low clouds the dull glare of the distant city. Just +over there was Great Ormond Street, and underneath that dim, red +light, like the light of a great house burning, was Madge Hopgood. +He lay down, turning over from side to side in the vain hope that by +change of position he might sleep. After about an hour's feverish +tossing, he just lost himself, but not in that oblivion which slumber +usually brought him. He was so far awake that he saw what was around +him, and yet, he was so far released from the control of his reason +that he did not recognise what he saw, and it became part of a new +scene created by his delirium. The full moon, clearing away the +clouds as she moved upwards, had now passed round to the south, and +just caught the white window-curtain farthest from him. He half- +opened his eyes, his mad dream still clung to him, and there was the +dead Madge before him, pale in death, and holding a child in her +arms! He distinctly heard himself scream as he started up in +affright; he could not tell where he was; the spectre faded and the +furniture and hangings transformed themselves into their familiar +reality. He could not lie down again, and rose and dressed himself. +He was not the man to believe that the ghost could be a revelation or +a prophecy, but, nevertheless, he was once more overcome with fear, a +vague dread partly justifiable by the fact of Madge, by the fact that +his father might soon know what had happened, that others also might +know, Cecilia for example, but partly also a fear going beyond all +the facts, and not to be accounted for by them, a strange, horrible +trembling such as men feel in earthquakes when the solid rock shakes, +on which everything rests. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + + +When Frank came downstairs to breakfast the conversation turned upon +his return to Germany. He did not object to going, although it can +hardly be said that he willed to go. He was in that perilous +condition in which the comparison of reasons is impossible, and the +course taken depends upon some chance impulse of the moment, and is a +mere drift. He could not leave, however, in complete ignorance of +Madge, and with no certainty as to her future. He resolved therefore +to make one more effort to discover the house. That was all which he +determined to do. What was to happen when he had found it, he did +not know. He was driven to do something, which could not be of any +importance, save for what must follow, but he was unable to bring +himself even to consider what was to follow. He knew that at +Fenmarket one or other of the sisters went out soon after breakfast +to make provision for the day, and perhaps, if they kept up this +custom, he might be successful in his search. He accordingly +stationed himself in Great Ormond Street at about half-past nine, and +kept watch from the Lamb's Conduit Street end, shifting his position +as well as he could, in order to escape notice. He had not been +there half an hour when he saw a door open, and Madge came out and +went westwards. She turned down Devonshire Street as if on her way +to Holborn. He instantly ran back to Theobalds Road, and when he +came to the corner of Devonshire Street she was about ten yards from +him, and he faced her. She stopped irresolutely, as if she had a +mind to return, but as he approached her, and she found she was +recognised, she came towards him. + +'Madge, Madge,' he cried, 'I want to speak to you. I must speak with +you.' + +'Better not; let me go.' + +'I say I MUST speak to you.' + +'We cannot talk here; let me go.' + +'I must! I must! come with me.' + +She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not refuse. +He called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word having been spoken +during those ten minutes, they were at St Paul's. The morning +service had just begun, and they sat down in a corner far away from +the worshippers. + +'Oh, Madge,' he began, 'I implore you to take me back. I love you. +I do love you, and--and--I cannot leave you.' + +She was side by side with the father of her child about to be born. +He was not and could not be as another man to her, and for the moment +there was the danger lest she should mistake this secret bond for +love. The thought of what had passed between them, and of the child, +his and hers, almost overpowered her. + +'I cannot,' he repeated. 'I OUGHT not. What will become of me?' + +She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement was not +contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was resonant, but it +was not a note which was consonant with hers, and it did not stir her +to respond. He might love her, he was sincere enough to sacrifice +himself for her, and to remain faithful to her, but the voice was not +altogether that of his own true self. Partly, at least, it was the +voice of what he considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm. +She was silent. + +'Madge,' he continued, 'ought you to refuse? You have some love for +me. Is it not greater than the love which thousands feel for one +another. Will you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of +someone besides, who may be very dear to you? OUGHT you not, I say, +to listen?' + +The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a voluntary, +rather longer than usual, and the congregation was leaving, some of +them passing near Madge and Frank, and casting idle glances on the +young couple who had evidently come neither to pray nor to admire the +architecture. Madge recognised the well-known St Ann's fugue, and, +strange to say, even at such a moment it took entire possession of +her; the golden ladder was let down and celestial visitors descended. +When the music ceased she spoke. + +'It would be a crime.' + +'A crime, but I--' She stopped him. + +'I know what you are going to say. I know what is the crime to the +world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a worse crime, if a +ceremony had been performed beforehand by a priest, and the worst of +crimes would be that ceremony now. I must go.' She rose and began +to move towards the door. + +He walked silently by her side till they were in St Paul's +churchyard, when she took him by the hand, pressed it affectionately +and suddenly turned into one of the courts that lead towards +Paternoster Row. He did not follow her, something repelled him, and +when he reached home it crossed his mind that marriage, after such +delay, would be a poor recompense, as he could not thereby conceal +her disgrace. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + + +It was clear that these two women could not live in London on +seventy-five pounds a year, most certainly not with the prospect +before them, and Clara cast about for something to do. Marshall had +a brother-in-law, a certain Baruch Cohen, a mathematical instrument +maker in Clerkenwell, and to him Marshall accidentally one day talked +about Clara, and said that she desired an occupation. Cohen himself +could not give Clara any work, but he knew a second-hand bookseller, +an old man who kept a shop in Holborn, who wanted a clerk, and Clara +thus found herself earning another pound a week. With this addition +she and her sister could manage to pay their way and provide what +Madge would want. The hours were long, the duties irksome and +wearisome, and, worst of all, the conditions under which they were +performed, were not only as bad as they could be, but their badness +was of a kind to which Clara had never been accustomed, so that she +felt every particle of it in its full force. The windows of the shop +were, of course, full of books, and the walls were lined with them. +In the middle of the shop also was a range of shelves, and books were +stacked on the floor, so that the place looked like a huge cubical +block of them through which passages had been bored. At the back the +shop became contracted in width to about eight feet, and consequently +the central shelves were not continued there, but just where they +ended, and overshadowed by them were a little desk and a stool. All +round the desk more books were piled, and some manoeuvring was +necessary in order to sit down. This was Clara's station. +Occasionally, on a brilliant, a very brilliant day in summer, she +could write without gas, but, perhaps, there were not a dozen such +days in the year. By twisting herself sideways she could just catch +a glimpse of a narrow line of sky over some heavy theology which was +not likely to be disturbed, and was therefore put at the top of the +window, and once when somebody bought the Calvin Joann. Opera Omnia, +9 vol. folio, Amst. 1671--it was very clear that afternoon--she +actually descried towards seven o'clock a blessed star exactly in the +middle of the gap the Calvin had left. + +The darkness was very depressing, and poor Clara often shut her eyes +as she bent over her day-book and ledger, and thought of the +Fenmarket flats where the sun could be seen bisected by the horizon +at sun-rising and sun-setting, and where even the southern Antares +shone with diamond glitter close to the ground during summer nights. +She tried to reason with herself during the dreadful smoke fogs; she +said to herself that they were only half-a-mile thick, and she +carried herself up in imagination and beheld the unclouded azure, the +filthy smother lying all beneath her, but her dream did not continue, +and reality was too strong for her. Worse, perhaps, than the eternal +gloom was the dirt. She was naturally fastidious, and as her skin +was thin and sensitive, dust was physically a discomfort. Even at +Fenmarket she was continually washing her hands and face, and, +indeed, a wash was more necessary to her after a walk than food or +drink. It was impossible to remain clean in Holborn for five +minutes; everything she touched was foul with grime; her collar and +cuffs were black with it when she went home to her dinner, and it was +not like the honest, blowing road-sand of Fenmarket highways, but a +loathsome composition of everything disgusting which could be +produced by millions of human beings and animals packed together in +soot. It was a real misery to her and made her almost ill. However, +she managed to set up for herself a little lavatory in the basement, +and whenever she had a minute at her command, she descended and +enjoyed the luxury of a cool, dripping sponge and a piece of yellow +soap. The smuts began to gather again the moment she went upstairs, +but she strove to arm herself with a little philosophy against them. +'What is there in life,' she moralised, smiling at her sermonising, +'which once won is for ever won? It is always being won and always +being lost.' Her master, fortunately, was one of the kindest of men, +an old gentleman of about sixty-five, who wore a white necktie, clean +every morning. He was really a GENTLEman in the true sense of that +much misused word, and not a mere TRADESman; that is to say, he loved +his business, not altogether for the money it brought him, but as an +art. He was known far and wide, and literary people were glad to +gossip with him. He never pushed his wares, and he hated to sell +them to anybody who did not know their value. He amused Clara one +afternoon when a carriage stopped at the door, and a lady inquired if +he had a Manning and Bray's History of Surrey. Yes, he had a copy, +and he pointed to the three handsome, tall folios. + +'What is the price?' + +'Twelve pounds ten.' + +'I think I will have them.' + +'Madam, you will pardon me, but, if I were you, I would not. I think +something much cheaper will suit you better. If you will allow me, I +will look out for you and will report in a few days.' + +'Oh! very well,' and she departed. + +'The wife of a brassfounder,' he said to Clara; 'made a lot of money, +and now he has bought a house at Dulwich and is setting up a library. +Somebody has told him that he ought to have a county history, and +that Manning and Bray is the book. Manning and Bray! What he wants +is a Dulwich and Denmark Hill Directory. No, no,' and he took down +one of the big volumes, blew the dust off the top edges and looked at +the old book-plate inside, 'you won't go there if I can help it.' He +took a fancy to Clara when he found she loved literature, although +what she read was out of his department altogether, and his perfectly +human behaviour to her prevented that sense of exile and loneliness +which is so horrible to many a poor creature who comes up to London +to begin therein the struggle for existence. She read and meditated +a good deal in the shop, but not to much profit, for she was +continually interrupted, and the thought of her sister intruded +itself perpetually. + +Madge seldom or never spoke of her separation from Frank, but one +night, when she was somewhat less reserved than usual, Clara ventured +to ask her if she had heard from him since they parted. + +'I met him once.' + +'Madge, do you mean that he found out where we are living, and that +he came to see you?' + +'No, it was just round the corner as I was going towards Holborn.' + +'Nothing could have brought him here but yourself,' said Clara, +slowly. + +'Clara, you doubt?' + +'No, no! I doubt you? Never!' + +'But you hesitate; you reflect. Speak out.' + +'God forbid I should utter a word which would induce you to +disbelieve what you know to be right. It is much more important to +believe earnestly that something is morally right than that it should +be really right, and he who attempts to displace a belief runs a +certain risk, because he is not sure that what he substitutes can be +held with equal force. Besides, each person's belief, or proposed +course of action, is a part of himself, and if he be diverted from it +and takes up with that which is not himself, the unity of his nature +is impaired, and he loses himself.' + +'Which is as much as to say that the prophet is to break no idols.' + +'You know I do not mean that, and you know, too, how incapable I am +of defending myself in argument. I never can stand up for anything I +say. I can now and then say something, but, when I have said it, I +run away.' + +'My dearest Clara,' Madge put her arm over her sister's shoulder as +they sat side by side, 'do not run away now; tell me just what you +think of me.' + +Clara was silent for a minute. + +'I have sometimes wondered whether you have not demanded a little too +much of yourself and Frank. It is always a question of how much. +There is no human truth which is altogether true, no love which is +altogether perfect. You may possibly have neglected virtue or +devotion such as you could not find elsewhere, overlooking it because +some failing, or the lack of sympathy on some unimportant point, may +at the moment have been prominent. Frank loved you, Madge.' + +Madge did not reply; she withdrew her arm from her sister's neck, +threw herself back in her chair and closed her eyes. She saw again +the Fenmarket roads, that summer evening, and she felt once more +Frank's burning caresses. She thought of him as he left St Paul's, +perhaps broken-hearted. Stronger than every other motive to return +to him, and stronger than ever, was the movement towards him of that +which belonged to him. + +At last she cried out, literally cried, with a vehemence which +startled and terrified Clara, - + +'Clara, Clara, you know not what you do! For God's sake forbear!' +She was again silent, and then she turned round hurriedly, hid her +face, and sobbed piteously. It lasted, however, but for a minute; +she rose, wiped her eyes, went to the window, came back again, and +said, - + +'It is beginning to snow.' + +The iron pillar bolted to the solid rock had quivered and resounded +under the blow, but its vibrations were nothing more than those of +the rigid metal; the base was unshaken and, except for an instant, +the column had not been deflected a hair's-breadth. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + + +Mr Cohen, who had obtained the situation indirectly for Clara, +thought nothing more about it until, one day, he went to the shop, +and he then recollected his recommendation, which had been given +solely in faith, for he had never seen the young woman, and had +trusted entirely to Marshall. He found her at her dark desk, and as +he approached her, she hastily put a mark in a book and closed it. + +'Have you sold a little volume called After Office Hours by a man +named Robinson?' + +'I did not know we had it. I have never seen it.' + +'I do not wonder, but I saw it here about six months ago; it was up +there,' pointing to a top shelf. Clara was about to mount the +ladder, but he stopped her, and found what he wanted. Some of the +leaves were torn. + +'We can repair those for you; in about a couple of days it shall be +ready.' + +He lingered a little, and at that moment another customer entered. +Clara went forward to speak to him, and Cohen was able to see that it +was the Heroes and Hero Worship she had been studying, a course of +lectures which had been given by a Mr Carlyle, of whom Cohen knew +something. As the customer showed no signs of departing, Cohen left, +saying he would call again. + +Before sending Robinson's After Office Hours to the binder, Clara +looked at it. It was made up of short essays, about twenty +altogether, bound in dark-green cloth, lettered at the side, and +published in 1841. They were upon the oddest subjects: such as, +Ought Children to learn Rules before Reasons? The Higher Mathematics +and Materialism. Ought We to tell Those Whom We love what We think +about Them? Deductive Reasoning in Politics. What Troubles ought We +to Make Known and What ought We to Keep Secret: Courage as a Science +and an Art. + +Clara did not read any one essay through, she had no time, but she +was somewhat struck with a few sentences which caught her eye; for +example--'A mere dream, a vague hope, ought in some cases to be more +potent than a certainty in regulating our action. The faintest +vision of God should be more determinative than the grossest earthly +assurance.' + +'I knew a case in which a man had to encounter three successive +trials of all the courage and inventive faculty in him. Failure in +one would have been ruin. The odds against him in each trial were +desperate, and against ultimate victory were overwhelming. +Nevertheless, he made the attempt, and was triumphant, by the +narrowest margin, in every struggle. That which is of most value to +us is often obtained in defiance of the laws of probability.' + +'What is precious in Quakerism is not so much the doctrine of the +Divine voice as that of the preliminary stillness, the closure +against other voices and the reduction of the mind to a condition in +which it can LISTEN, in which it can discern the merest whisper, +inaudible when the world, or interest, or passion, are permitted to +speak.' + +'The acutest syllogiser can never develop the actual consequences of +any system of policy, or, indeed, of any change in human +relationship, man being so infinitely complex, and the interaction of +human forces so incalculable.' + +'Many of our speculative difficulties arise from the unauthorised +conception of an OMNIPOTENT God, a conception entirely of our own +creation, and one which, if we look at it closely, has no meaning. +It is because God COULD have done otherwise, and did not, that we are +confounded. It may be distressing to think that God cannot do any +better, but it is not so distressing as to believe that He might have +done better had He so willed.' + +Although these passages were disconnected, each of them seemed to +Clara to be written in a measure for herself, and her curiosity was +excited about the author. Perhaps the man who called would say +something about him. + +Baruch Cohen was now a little over forty. He was half a Jew, for his +father was a Jew and his mother a Gentile. The father had broken +with Judaism, but had not been converted to any Christian church or +sect. He was a diamond-cutter, originally from Holland, came over to +England and married the daughter of a mathematical instrument maker, +at whose house he lodged in Clerkenwell. The son was apprenticed to +his maternal grandfather's trade, became very skilful at it, worked +at it himself, employed a man and a boy, and supplied London shops, +which sold his instruments at about three times the price he obtained +for them. Baruch, when he was very young, married Marshall's elder +sister, but she died at the birth of her first child and he had been +a widower now for nineteen years. He had often thought of taking +another wife, and had seen, during these nineteen years, two or three +women with whom he had imagined himself to be really in love, and to +whom he had been on the verge of making proposals, but in each case +he had hung back, and when he found that a second and a third had +awakened the same ardour for a time as the first, he distrusted its +genuineness. He was now, too, at a time of life when a man has to +make the unpleasant discovery that he is beginning to lose the right +to expect what he still eagerly desires, and that he must beware of +being ridiculous. It is indeed a very unpleasant discovery. If he +has done anything well which was worth doing, or has made himself a +name, he may be treated by women with respect or adulation, but any +passable boy of twenty is really more interesting to them, and, +unhappily, there is perhaps so much of the man left in him that he +would rather see the eyes of a girl melt when she looked at him than +be adored by all the drawing-rooms in London as the author of the +greatest poem since Paradise Lost, or as the conqueror of half a +continent. Baruch's life during the last nineteen years had been +such that he was still young, and he desired more than ever, because +not so blindly as he desired it when he was a youth, the tender, +intimate sympathy of a woman's love. It was singular that, during +all those nineteen years, he should not once have been overcome. It +seemed to him as if he had been held back, not by himself, but by +some external power, which refused to give any reasons for so doing. +There was now less chance of yielding than ever; he was reserved and +self-respectful, and his manner towards women distinctly announced to +them that he knew what he was and that he had no claims whatever upon +them. He was something of a philosopher, too; he accepted, +therefore, as well as he could, without complaint, the inevitable +order of nature, and he tried to acquire, although often he failed, +that blessed art of taking up lightly and even with a smile whatever +he was compelled to handle. 'It is possible,' he said once, 'to +consider death too seriously.' He was naturally more than half a +Jew; his features were Jewish, his thinking was Jewish, and he +believed after a fashion in the Jewish sacred books, or, at anyrate, +read them continuously, although he had added to his armoury +defensive weapons of another type. In nothing was he more Jewish +than in a tendency to dwell upon the One, or what he called God, +clinging still to the expression of his forefathers although +departing so widely from them. In his ethics and system of life, as +well as in his religion, there was the same intolerance of a +multiplicity which was not reducible to unity. He seldom explained +his theory, but everybody who knew him recognised the difference +which it wrought between him and other men. There was a certain +concord in everything he said and did, as if it were directed by some +enthroned but secret principle. + +He had encountered no particular trouble since his wife's death, but +his life had been unhappy. He had no friends, much as he longed for +friendship, and he could not give any reasons for his failure. He +saw other persons more successful, but he remained solitary. Their +needs were not so great as his, for it is not those who have the +least but those who have the most to give who most want sympathy. He +had often made advances; people had called on him and had appeared +interested in him, but they had dropped away. The cause was chiefly +to be found in his nationality. The ordinary Englishman disliked him +simply as a Jew, and the better sort were repelled by a lack of +geniality and by his inability to manifest a healthy interest in +personal details. Partly also the cause was that those who care to +speak about what is nearest to them are very rare, and most persons +find conversation easy in proportion to the remoteness of its topics +from them. Whatever the reasons may have been, Baruch now, no matter +what the pressure from within might be, generally kept himself to +himself. It was a mistake and he ought not to have retreated so far +upon repulse. A word will sometimes, when least expected, unlock a +heart, a soul is gained for ever, and at once there is much more than +a recompense for the indifference of years. + +After the death of his wife, Baruch's affection spent itself upon his +son Benjamin, whom he had apprenticed to a firm of optical instrument +makers in York. The boy was not very much like his father. He was +indifferent to that religion by which his father lived, but he +inherited an aptitude for mathematics, which was very necessary in +his trade. Benjamin also possessed his father's rectitude, trusted +him, and looked to him for advice to such a degree that even Baruch, +at last, thought it would be better to send him away from home in +order that he might become a little more self-reliant and +independent. It was the sorest of trials to part with him, and, for +some time after he left, Baruch's loneliness was intolerable. It +was, however, relieved by a visit to York perhaps once in four or +five months, for whenever business could be alleged as an excuse for +going north, he managed, as he said, 'to take York on his way.' + +The day after he met Clara he started for Birmingham, and although +York was certainly not 'on his way,' he pushed forward to the city +and reached it on a Saturday evening. He was to spend Sunday there, +and on Sunday morning he proposed that they should hear the cathedral +service, and go for a walk in the afternoon. To this suggestion +Benjamin partially assented. He wished to go to the cathedral in the +morning, but thought his father had better rest after dinner. Baruch +somewhat resented the insinuation of possible fatigue consequent on +advancing years. + +'What do you mean?' he said; 'you know well enough I enjoy a walk in +the afternoon; besides, I shall not see much of you, and do not want +to lose what little time I have.' + +About three, therefore, they started, and presently a girl met them, +who was introduced simply as 'Miss Masters.' + +'We are going to your side of the water,' said the son; 'you may as +well cross with us.' + +They came to a point where a boat was moored, and a man was in it. +There was no regular ferry, but on Sundays he earned a trifle by +taking people to the opposite meadow, and thus enabling them to vary +their return journey to the city. When they were about two-thirds of +the way over, Benjamin observed that if they stood up they could see +the Minster. They all three rose, and without an instant's warning-- +they could not tell afterwards how it happened--the boat half +capsized, and they were in eight or nine feet of water. Baruch could +not swim and went down at once, but on coming up close to the gunwale +he caught at it and held fast. Looking round, he saw that Benjamin, +who could swim well, had made for Miss Masters, and, having caught +her by the back of the neck, was taking her ashore. The boatman, who +could also swim, called out to Baruch to hold on, gave the boat three +or four vigorous strokes from the stern, and Baruch felt the ground +under his feet. The boatman's little cottage was not far off, and, +when the party reached it, Benjamin earnestly desired Miss Masters to +take off her wet clothes and occupy the bed which was offered her. +He himself would run home--it was not half-a-mile--and, after having +changed, would go to her house and send her sister with what was +wanted. He was just off when it suddenly struck him that his father +might need some attention. + +'Oh, father--' he began, but the boatman's wife interposed. + +'He can't be left like that, and he can't go home; he'll catch his +death o' cold, and there isn't but one more bed in the house, and +that isn't quite fit to put a gentleman in. Howsomever, he must turn +in there, and my husband, he can go into the back-kitchen and rub +himself down. You won't do yourself no good, Mr Cohen,' addressing +the son, whom she knew, 'by going back; you'd better stay here and +get into bed with your father.' + +In a few minutes the boatman would have gone on the errand, but +Benjamin could not lose the opportunity of sacrificing himself for +Miss Masters. He rushed off, and in three-quarters of an hour had +returned with the sister. Having learned, after anxious inquiry, +that Miss Masters, so far as could be discovered, had not caught a +chill, he went to his father. + +'Well, father, I hope you are none the worse for the ducking,' he +said gaily. 'The next time you come to York you'd better bring +another suit of clothes with you.' + +Baruch turned round uneasily and did not answer immediately. He had +had a narrow escape from drowning. + +'Nothing of much consequence. Is your friend all right?' + +'Oh, yes; I was anxious about her, for she is not very strong, but I +do not think she will come to much harm. I made them light a fire in +her room.' + +'Are they drying my clothes?' + +'I'll go and see.' + +He went away and encountered the elder Miss Masters, who told him +that her sister, feeling no ill effects from the plunge, had +determined to go home at once, and in fact was nearly ready. +Benjamin waited, and presently she came downstairs, smiling. + +'Nothing the matter. I owe it to you, however, that I am not now in +another world.' + +Benjamin was in an ecstasy, and considered himself bound to accompany +her to her door. + +Meanwhile, Baruch lay upstairs alone in no very happy temper. He +heard the conversation below, and knew that his son had gone. In all +genuine love there is something of ferocious selfishness. The +perfectly divine nature knows how to keep it in check, and is even +capable--supposing it to be a woman's nature--of contentment if the +loved one is happy, no matter with what or with whom; but the nature +only a little less than divine cannot, without pain, endure the +thought that it no longer owns privately and exclusively that which +it loves, even when it loves a child, and Baruch was particularly +excusable, considering his solitude. Nevertheless, he had learned a +little wisdom, and, what was of much greater importance, had learned +how to use it when he needed it. It had been forced upon him; it was +an adjustment to circumstances, the wisest wisdom. It was not +something without any particular connection with him; it was rather +the external protection built up from within to shield him where he +was vulnerable; it was the answer to questions which had been put to +HIM, and not to those which had been put to other people. So it came +to pass that, when he said bitterly to himself that, if he were at +that moment lying dead at the bottom of the river, Benjamin would +have found consolation very near at hand, he was able to reflect upon +the folly of self-laceration, and to rebuke himself for a complaint +against what was simply the order of Nature, and not a personal +failure. + +His self-conquest, however, was not very permanent. When he left +York the next morning, he fancied his son was not particularly +grieved, and he was passive under the thought that an epoch in his +life had come, that the milestones now began to show the distance to +the place to which he travelled, and, still worse, that the boy who +had been so close to him, and upon whom he had so much depended, had +gone from him. + +There is no remedy for our troubles which is uniformly and +progressively efficacious. All that we have a right to expect from +our religion is that gradually, very gradually, it will assist us to +a real victory. After each apparent defeat, if we are bravely in +earnest, we gain something on our former position. Baruch was two +days on his journey back to town, and as he came nearer home, he +recovered himself a little. Suddenly he remembered the bookshop and +the book for which he had to call, and that he had intended to ask +Marshall something about the bookseller's new assistant. + + + +CHAPTER XX + + + +Madge was a puzzle to Mrs Caffyn. Mrs Caffyn loved her, and when she +was ill had behaved like a mother to her. The newly-born child, a +healthy girl, was treated by Mrs Caffyn as if it were her own +granddaughter, and many little luxuries were bought which never +appeared in Mrs Marshall's weekly bill. Naturally, Mrs Caffyn's +affection moved a response from Madge, and Mrs Caffyn by degrees +heard the greater part of her history; but why she had separated +herself from her lover without any apparent reason remained a +mystery, and all the greater was the mystery because Mrs Caffyn +believed that there were no other facts to be known than those she +knew. She longed to bring about a reconciliation. It was dreadful +to her that Madge should be condemned to poverty, and that her infant +should be fatherless, although there was a gentleman waiting to take +them both and make them happy. + +'The hair won't be dark like yours, my love,' she said one afternoon, +soon after Madge had come downstairs and was lying on the sofa. 'The +hair do darken a lot, but hers will never be black. It's my opinion +as it'll be fair.' + +Madge did not speak, and Mrs Caffyn, who was sitting at the head of +the couch, put her work and her spectacles on the table. It was +growing dusk; she took Madge's hand, which hung down by her side, and +gently lifted it up. Such a delicate hand, Mrs Caffyn thought. She +was proud that she had for a friend the owner of such a hand, who +behaved to her as an equal. It was delightful to be kissed--no mere +formal salutations--by a lady fit to go into the finest drawing-room +in London, but it was a greater delight that Madge's talk suited her +better than any she had heard at Great Oakhurst. It was natural she +should rejoice when she discovered, unconsciously that she had a +soul, to which the speech of the stars, though somewhat strange, was +not an utterly foreign tongue. + +She retained her hold on Madge's hand. + +'May be,' she continued, 'it'll be like its father's. In our family +all the gals take after the father, and all the boys after the +mother. I suppose as HE has lightish hair?' + +Still Madge said nothing. + +'It isn't easy to believe as the father of that blessed dear could +have been a bad lot. I'm sure he isn't, and yet there's that +Polesden gal at the farm, she as went wrong with Jim, a great ugly +brute, and she herself warnt up to much, well, as I say, her child +was the delicatest little angel as I ever saw. It's my belief as +God-a-mighty mixes Hisself up in it more nor we think. But there WAS +nothing amiss with him, was there, my sweet?' + +Mrs Caffyn inclined her head towards Madge. + +'Oh, no! Nothing, nothing.' + +'Don't you think, my dear, if there's nothing atwixt you, as it was a +flyin' in the face of Providence to turn him off? You were reglarly +engaged to him, and I have heard you say he was very fond of you. I +suppose there were some high words about something, and a kind of a +quarrel like, and so you parted, but that's nothing. It might all be +made up now, and it ought to be made up. What was it about?' + +'There was no quarrel.' + +'Well, of course, if you don't like to say anything more to me, I +won't ask you. I don't want to hear any secrets as I shouldn't hear. +I speak only because I can't abear to see you here when I believe as +everything might be put right, and you might have a house of your +own, and a good husband, and be happy for the rest of your days. It +isn't too late for that now. I know what I know, and as how he'd +marry you at once.' + +'Oh, my dear Mrs Caffyn, I have no secret from you, who have been so +good to me: I can only say I could not love him--not as I ought.' + +'If you can't love a man, that's to say if you can't ABEAR him, it's +wrong to have him, but if there's a child that does make a +difference, for one has to think of the child and of being +respectable. There's something in being respectable; although, for +that matter, I've see'd respectable people at Great Oakhurst as were +ten times worse than those as aren't. Still, a-speaking for myself, +I'd put up with a goodish bit to marry the man whose child wor mine.' + +'For myself I could, but it wouldn't be just to him.' + +'I don't see what you mean.' + +'I mean that I could sacrifice myself if I believed it to be my duty, +but I should wrong him cruelly if I were to accept him and did not +love him with all my heart.' + +'My dear, you take my word for it, he isn't so particklar as you are. +A man isn't so particklar as a woman. He goes about his work, and +has all sorts of things in his head, and if a woman makes him +comfortable when he comes home, he's all right. I won't say as one +woman is much the same as another to a man--leastways to all men--but +still they are NOT particklar. Maybe, though, it isn't quite the +same with gentlefolk like yourself,--but there's that blessed baby a- +cryin'.' + +Mrs Caffyn hastened upstairs, leaving Madge to her reflections. Once +more the old dialectic reappeared. 'After all,' she thought, 'it is, +as Clara said, a question of degree. There are not a thousand +husbands and wives in this great city whose relationship comes near +perfection. If I felt aversion my course would be clear, but there +is no aversion; on the contrary, our affection for one another is +sufficient for a decent household and decent existence undisturbed by +catastrophes. No brighter sunlight is obtained by others far better +than myself. Ought I to expect a refinement of relationship to which +I have no right? Our claims are always beyond our deserts, and we +are disappointed if our poor, mean, defective natures do not obtain +the homage which belongs to those of ethereal texture. It will be a +life with no enthusiasms nor romance, perhaps, but it will be +tolerable, and what may be called happy, and my child will be +protected and educated. My child! what is there which I ought to put +in the balance against her? If our sympathy is not complete, I have +my own little oratory: I can keep the candles alight, close the +door, and worship there alone.' + +So she mused, and her foes again ranged themselves over against her. +There was nothing to support her but something veiled, which would +not altogether disclose or explain itself. Nevertheless, in a few +minutes, her enemies had vanished, like a mist before a sudden wind, +and she was once more victorious. Precious and rare are those divine +souls, to whom that which is aerial is substantial, the only true +substance; those for whom a pale vision possesses an authority they +are forced unconditionally to obey. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + + +Mrs Caffyn was unhappy, and made up her mind that she would talk to +Frank herself. She had learned enough about him from the two +sisters, especially from Clara, to make her believe that, with a very +little management, she could bring him back to Madge. The difficulty +was to see him without his father's knowledge. At last she +determined to write to him, and she made her son-in-law address the +envelope and mark it private. This is what she said:- + + +'DEAR SIR,--Although unbeknown to you, I take the liberty of telling +you as M. H. is alivin' here with me, and somebody else as I think +you ought to see, but perhaps I'd better have a word or two with you +myself, if not quite ill-convenient to you, and maybe you'll be kind +enough to say how that's to be done to your obedient, humble servant, + +'MRS CAFFYN.' + + +She thought this very diplomatic, inasmuch as nobody but Frank could +possibly suspect what the letter meant. It went to Stoke Newington, +but, alas! he was in Germany, and poor Mrs Caffyn had to wait a week +before she received a reply. Frank of course understood it. +Although he had thought about Madge continually, he had become +calmer. He saw, it is true, that there was no stability in his +position, and that he could not possibly remain where he was. Had +Madge been the commonest of the common, and his relationship to her +the commonest of the common, he could not permit her to cast herself +loose from him for ever and take upon herself the whole burden of his +misdeed. But he did not know what to do, and, as successive +considerations and reconsiderations ended in nothing, and the +distractions of a foreign country were so numerous, Madge had for a +time been put aside, like a huge bill which we cannot pay, and which +staggers us. We therefore docket it, and hide it in the desk, and we +imagine we have done something. Once again, however, the flame leapt +up out of the ashes, vivid as ever. Once again the thought that he +had been so close to Madge, and that she had yielded to him, touched +him with peculiar tenderness, and it seemed impossible to part +himself from her. To a man with any of the nobler qualities of man +it is not only a sense of honour which binds him to a woman who has +given him all she has to give. Separation seems unnatural, +monstrous, a divorce from himself; it is not she alone, but it is +himself whom he abandons. Frank's duty, too, pointed imperiously to +the path he ought to take, duty to the child as well as to the +mother. He determined to go home, secretly; Mrs Caffyn would not +have written if she had not seen good reason for believing that Madge +still belonged to him. He made up his mind to start the next day, +but when the next day came, instructions to go immediately to Hamburg +arrived from his father. There were rumours of the insolvency of a +house with which Mr Palmer dealt; inquiries were necessary which +could better be made personally, and if these rumours were correct, +as Mr Palmer believed them to be, his agency must be transferred to +some other firm. There was now no possibility of a journey to +England. For a moment he debated whether, when he was at Hamburg, he +could not slip over to London, but it would be dangerous. Further +orders might come from his father, and the failure to acknowledge +them would lead to evasion, and perhaps to discovery. He must, +therefore, content himself with a written explanation to Mrs Caffyn +why he could not meet her, and there should be one more effort to +make atonement to Madge. This was what went to Mrs Caffyn, and to +her lodger:- + + +'DEAR MADAM,--Your note has reached me here. I am very sorry that my +engagements are so pressing that I cannot leave Germany at present. +I have written to Miss Hopgood. There is one subject which I cannot +mention to her--I cannot speak to her about money. Will you please +give me full information? I enclose 20 pounds, and I must trust to your +discretion. I thank you heartily for all your kindness.--Truly +yours, + +'FRANK PALMER.' + + +'MY DEAREST MADGE,--I cannot help saying one more word to you, +although, when I last saw you, you told me that it was useless for me +to hope. I know, however, that there is now another bond between us, +the child is mine as well as yours, and if I am not all that you +deserve, ought you to prevent me from doing my duty to it as well as +to you? It is true that if we were to marry I could never right you, +and perhaps my father would have nothing to do with us, but in time +he might relent, and I will come over at once, or, at least, the +moment I have settled some business here, and you shall be my wife. +Do, my dearest Madge, consent.' + + +When he came to this point his pen stopped. What he had written was +very smooth, but very tame and cold. However, nothing better +presented itself; he changed his position, sat back in his chair, and +searched himself, but could find nothing. It was not always so. +Some months ago there would have been no difficulty, and he would not +have known when to come to an end. The same thing would have been +said a dozen times, perhaps, but it would not have seemed the same to +him, and each succeeding repetition would have been felt with the +force of novelty. He took a scrap of paper and tried to draft two or +three sentences, altered them several times and made them worse. He +then re-read the letter; it was too short; but after all it contained +what was necessary, and it must go as it stood. She knew how he felt +towards her. So he signed it after giving his address at Hamburg, +and it was posted. + +Three or four days afterwards Mrs Marshall, in accordance with her +usual custom, went to see Madge before she was up. The child lay +peacefully by its mother's side and Frank's letter was upon the +counterpane. The resolution that no letter from him should be opened +had been broken. The two women had become great friends and, within +the last few weeks, Madge had compelled Mrs Marshall to call her by +her Christian name. + +'You've had a letter from Mr Palmer; I was sure it was his +handwriting when it came late last night.' + +'You can read it; there is nothing private in it.' + +She turned round to the child and Mrs Marshall sat down and read. +When she had finished she laid the letter on the bed again and was +silent. + +'Well?' said Madge. 'Would you say "No?"' + +'Yes, I would.' + +'For your own sake, as well as for his?' + +Mrs Marshall took up the letter and read half of it again. + +'Yes, you had better say "No." You will find it dull, especially if +you have to live in London.' + +'Did you find London dull when you came to live in it?' + +'Rather; Marshall is away all day long.' + +'But scarcely any woman in London expects to marry a man who is not +away all day.' + +'They ought then to have heaps of work, or they ought to have a lot +of children to look after; but, perhaps, being born and bred in the +country, I do not know what people in London are. Recollect you were +country born and bred yourself, or, at anyrate, you have lived in the +country for the most of your life.' + +'Dull! we must all expect to be dull.' + +'There's nothing worse. I've had rheumatic fever, and I say, give me +the fever rather than what comes over me at times here. If Marshall +had not been so good to me, I do not know what I should have done +with myself.' + +Madge turned round and looked Mrs Marshall straight in the face, but +she did not flinch. + +'Marshall is very good to me, but I was glad when mother and you and +your sister came to keep me company when he is not at home. It tired +me to have my meals alone: it is bad for the digestion; at least, so +he says, and he believes that it was indigestion that was the matter +with me. I should be sorry for myself if you were to go away; not +that I want to put that forward. Maybe I should never see much more +of you: he is rich: you might come here sometimes, but he would not +like to have Marshall and mother and me at his house.' + +Not a word was spoken for at least a minute. + +Suddenly Mrs Marshall took Madge's hand in her own hands, leaned over +her, and in that kind of whisper with which we wake a sleeper who is +to be aroused to escape from sudden peril, she said in her ear, - + +'Madge, Madge: for God's sake leave him!' + +'I have left him.' + +'Are you sure?' + +'Quite.' + +'For ever?' + +'For ever!' + +Mrs Marshall let go Madge's hand, turned her eyes towards her +intently for a moment, and again bent over her as if she were about +to embrace her. A knock, however, came at the door, and Mrs Caffyn +entered with the cup of coffee which she always insisted on bringing +before Madge rose. After she and her daughter had left, Madge read +the letter once more. There was nothing new in it, but formally it +was something, like the tolling of the bell when we know that our +friend is dead. There was a little sobbing, and then she kissed her +child with such eagerness that it began to cry. + +'You'll answer that letter, I suppose?' said Mrs Caffyn, when they +were alone. + +'No.' + +'I'm rather glad. It would worrit you, and there's nothing worse for +a baby than worritin' when it's mother's a-feedin it.' + +Mr Caffyn wrote as follows:- + + +'DEAR SIR,--I was sorry as you couldn't come; but I believe now as it +was better as you didn't. I am no scollard, and so no more from your +obedient, humble servant, + +'MRS CAFFYN. + +'P.S.--I return the money, having no use for the same. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + + +Baruch did not obtain any very definite information from Marshall +about Clara. He was told that she had a sister; that they were both +of them gentlewomen; that their mother and father were dead; that +they were great readers, and that they did not go to church nor +chapel, but that they both went sometimes to hear a certain Mr A. J. +Scott lecture. He was once assistant minister to Irving, but was now +heretical, and had a congregation of his own creating at Woolwich. + +Baruch called at the shop and found Clara once more alone. The book +was packed up and had being lying ready for him for two or three +days. He wanted to speak, but hardly knew how to begin. He looked +idly round the shelves, taking down one volume after another, and at +last he said, - + +'I suppose nobody but myself has ever asked for a copy of Robinson?' + +'Not since I have been here.' + +'I do not wonder at it; he printed only two hundred and fifty; he +gave away five-and-twenty, and I am sure nearly two hundred were sold +as wastepaper.' + +'He is a friend of yours?' + +'He was a friend; he is dead; he was an usher in a private school, +although you might have supposed, from the title selected, that he +was a clerk. I told him it was useless to publish, and his +publishers told him the same thing.' + +'I should have thought that some notice would have been taken of him; +he is so evidently worth it.' + +'Yes, but although he was original and reflective, he had no +particular talent. His excellence lay in criticism and observation, +often profound, on what came to him every day, and he was valueless +in the literary market. A talent of some kind is necessary to genius +if it is to be heard. So he died utterly unrecognised, save by one +or two personal friends who loved him dearly. He was peculiar in the +depth and intimacy of his friendships. Few men understand the +meaning of the word friendship. They consort with certain companions +and perhaps very earnestly admire them, because they possess +intellectual gifts, but of friendship, such as we two, Morris and I +(for that was his real name) understood it, they know nothing.' + +'Do you believe, that the good does not necessarily survive?' + +'Yes and no; I believe that power every moment, so far as our eyes +can follow it, is utterly lost. I have had one or two friends whom +the world has never known and never will know, who have more in them +than is to be found in many an English classic. I could take you to +a little dissenting chapel not very far from Holborn where you would +hear a young Welshman, with no education beyond that provided by a +Welsh denominational college, who is a perfect orator and whose depth +of insight is hardly to be matched, save by Thomas A Kempis, whom he +much resembles. When he dies he will be forgotten in a dozen years. +Besides, it is surely plain enough to everybody that there are +thousands of men and women within a mile of us, apathetic and +obscure, who, if, an object worthy of them had been presented to +them, would have shown themselves capable of enthusiasm and heroism. +Huge volumes of human energy are apparently annihilated.' + +'It is very shocking, worse to me than the thought of the earthquake +or the pestilence.' + +'I said "yes and no" and there is another side. The universe is so +wonderful, so intricate, that it is impossible to trace the +transformation of its forces, and when they seem to disappear the +disappearance may be an illusion. Moreover, "waste" is a word which +is applicable only to finite resources. If the resources are +infinite it has no meaning.' + +Two customers came in and Baruch was obliged to leave. When he came +to reflect, he was surprised to find not only how much he had said, +but what he had said. He was usually reserved, and with strangers he +adhered to the weather or to passing events. He had spoken, however, +to this young woman as if they had been acquainted for years. Clara, +too, was surprised. She always cut short attempts at conversation in +the shop. Frequently she answered questions and receipted and +returned bills without looking in the faces of the people who spoke +to her or offered her the money. But to this foreigner, or Jew, she +had disclosed something she felt. She was rather abashed, but +presently her employer, Mr Barnes, returned and somewhat relieved +her. + +'The gentleman who bought After Office Hours came for it while you +were out?' + +'Oh! what, Cohen? Good fellow Cohen is; he it was who recommended +you to me. He is brother-in-law to your landlord.' Clara was +comforted; he was not a mere 'casual,' as Mr Barnes called his chance +customers. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + + +About a fortnight afterwards, on a Sunday afternoon, Cohen went to +the Marshalls'. He had called there once or twice since his mother- +in-law came to London, but had seen nothing of the lodgers. It was +just about tea-time, but unfortunately Marshall and his wife had gone +out. Mrs Caffyn insisted that Cohen should stay, but Madge could not +be persuaded to come downstairs, and Baruch, Mrs Caffyn and Clara had +tea by themselves. Baruch asked Mrs Caffyn if she could endure +London after living for so long in the country. + +'Ah! my dear boy, I have to like it.' + +'No, you haven't; what you mean is that, whether you like it, or +whether you do not, you have to put up with it.' + +'No, I don't mean that. Miss Hopgood, Cohen and me, we are the best +of friends, but whenever he comes here, he allus begins to argue with +me. Howsomever, arguing isn't everything, is it, my dear? There's +some things, after all, as I can do and he can't, but he's just wrong +here in his arguing that wasn't what I meant. I meant what I said, +as I had to like it.' + +'How can you like it if you don't?' + +'How can I? That shows you're a man and not a woman. Jess like you +men. YOU'D do what you didn't like, I know, for you're a good sort-- +and everybody would know you didn't like it--but what would be the +use of me a-livin' in a house if I didn't like it?--with my daughter +and these dear, young women? If it comes to livin', you'd ten +thousand times better say at once as you hate bein' where you are +than go about all day long, as if you was a blessed saint and put +upon.' + +Mrs Caffyn twitched at her gown and pulled it down over her knees and +brushed the crumbs off with energy. She continued, 'I can't abide +people who everlastin' make believe they are put upon. Suppose I +were allus a-hankering every foggy day after Great Oakhurst, and yet +a-tellin' my daughter as I knew my place was here; if I was she, I +should wish my mother at Jericho.' + +'Then you really prefer London to Great Oakhurst?' said Clara. + +'Why, my dear, of course I do. Don't you think it's pleasanter being +here with you and your sister and that precious little creature, and +my daughter, than down in that dead-alive place? Not that I don't +miss my walk sometimes into Darkin; you remember that way as I took +you once, Baruch, across the hill, and we went over Ranmore Common +and I showed you Camilla Lacy, and you said as you knew a woman who +wrote books who once lived there? You remember them beech-woods? +Ah, it was one October! Weren't they a colour--weren't they lovely?' + +Baruch remembered them well enough. Who that had ever seen them +could forget them? + +'And it was I as took you! You wouldn't think it, my dear, though +he's always a-arguin', I do believe he'd love to go that walk again, +even with an old woman, and see them heavenly beeches. But, Lord, +how I do talk, and you've neither of you got any tea.' + +'Have you lived long in London, Miss Hopgood?' inquired Baruch. + +'Not very long.' + +'Do you feel the change?' + +'I cannot say I do not.' + +'I suppose, however, you have brought yourself to believe in Mrs +Caffyn's philosophy?' + +'I cannot say that, but I may say that I am scarcely strong enough +for mere endurance, and I therefore always endeavour to find +something agreeable in circumstances from which there is no escape.' + +The recognition of the One in the Many had as great a charm for +Baruch as it had for Socrates, and Clara spoke with the ease of a +person whose habit it was to deal with principles and +generalisations. + +'Yes, and mere toleration, to say nothing of opposition, at least so +far as persons are concerned, is seldom necessary. It is generally +thought that what is called dramatic power is a poetic gift, but it +is really an indispensable virtue to all of us if we are to be +happy.' + +Mrs Caffyn did not take much interest in abstract statements. 'You +remember,' she said, turning to Baruch, 'that man Chorley as has the +big farm on the left-hand side just afore you come to the common? He +wasn't a Surrey man: he came out of the shires.' + +'Very well.' + +'He's married that Skelton girl; married her the week afore I left. +There isn't no love lost there, but the girl's father said he'd +murder him if he didn't, and so it come off. How she ever brought +herself to it gets over me. She has that big farm-house, and he's +made a fine drawing-room out of the livin' room on the left-hand side +as you go in, and put a new grate in the kitchen and turned that into +the livin' room, and they does the cooking in the back kitchen, but +for all that, if I'd been her, I'd never have seen his face no more, +and I'd have packed off to Australia.' + +'Does anybody go near them?' + +'Near them! of course they do, and, as true as I'm a-sittin' here, +our parson, who married them, went to the breakfast. It isn't +Chorley as I blame so much; he's a poor, snivellin' creature, and he +was frightened, but it's the girl. She doesn't care for him no more +than me, and then again, although, as I tell you, he's such a poor +creature, he's awful cruel and mean, and she knows it. But what was +I a-goin' to say? Never shall I forget that wedding. You know as +it's a short cut to the church across the farmyard at the back of my +house. The parson, he was rather late--I suppose he'd been giving +himself a finishin' touch--and, as it had been very dry weather, he +went across the straw and stuff just at the edge like of the yard. +There was a pig under the straw--pigs, my dear,' turning to Clara, +'nuzzle under the straw so as you can't see them. Just as he came to +this pig it started up and upset him, and he fell and straddled +across its back, and the Lord have mercy on me if it didn't carry him +at an awful rate, as if he was a jockey at Epsom races, till it come +to a puddle of dung water, and then down he plumped in it. You never +see'd a man in such a pickle! I heer'd the pig a-squeakin' like mad, +and I ran to the door, and I called out to him, and I says, "Mr +Ormiston, won't you come in here?" and though, as you know, he allus +hated me, he had to come. Mussy on us, how he did stink, and he saw +me turn up my nose, and he was wild with rage, and he called the pig +a filthy beast. I says to him as that was the pig's way and the pig +didn't know who it was who was a-ridin' it, and I took his coat off +and wiped his stockings, and sent to the rectory for another coat, +and he crept up under the hedge to his garden, and went home, and the +people at church had to wait for an hour. I was glad I was goin' +away from Great Oakhurst, for he never would have forgiven me.' + +There was a ring at the front door bell, and Clara went to see who +was there. It was a runaway ring, but she took the opportunity of +going upstairs to Madge. + +'She has a sister?' said Baruch. + +'Yes, and I may just as well tell you about her now--leastways what I +know--and I believe as I know pretty near everything about her. +You'll have to be told if they stay here. She was engaged to be +married, and how it came about with a girl like that is a bit beyond +me, anyhow, there's a child, and the father's a good sort by what I +can make out, but she won't have anything more to do with him.' + +'What do you mean by "a girl like that."' + +'She isn't one of them as goes wrong; she can talk German and reads +books.' + +'Did he desert her?' + +'No, that's just it. She loves me, although I say it, as if I was +her mother, and yet I'm just as much in the dark as I was the first +day I saw her as to why she left that man.' + +Mrs Caffyn wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron. + +'It's gospel truth as I never took to anybody as I've took to her.' + +After Baruch had gone, Clara returned. + +'He's a curious creature, my dear,' said Mrs Caffyn, 'as good as +gold, but he's too solemn by half. It would do him a world of good +if he'd somebody with him who'd make him laugh more. He CAN laugh, +for I've seen him forced to get up and hold his sides, but he never +makes no noise. He's a Jew, and they say as them as crucified our +blessed Lord never laugh proper. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + + +Baruch was now in love. He had fallen in love with Clara suddenly +and totally. His tendency to reflectiveness did not diminish his +passion: it rather augmented it. The men and women whose thoughts +are here and there continually are not the people to feel the full +force of love. Those who do feel it are those who are accustomed to +think of one thing at a time, and to think upon it for a long time. +'No man,' said Baruch once, 'can love a woman unless he loves God.' +'I should say,' smilingly replied the Gentile, 'that no man can love +God unless he loves a woman.' 'I am right,' said Baruch, 'and so are +you.' + +But Baruch looked in the glass: his hair, jet black when he was a +youth, was marked with grey, and once more the thought came to him-- +this time with peculiar force--that he could not now expect a woman +to love him as she had a right to demand that he should love, and +that he must be silent. He was obliged to call upon Barnes in about +a fortnight's time. He still read Hebrew, and he had seen in the +shop a copy of the Hebrew translation of the Moreh Nevochim of +Maimonides, which he greatly coveted, but could not afford to buy. +Like every true book-lover, he could not make up his mind when he +wished for a book which was beyond his means that he ought once for +all to renounce it, and he was guilty of subterfuges quite unworthy +of such a reasonable creature in order to delude himself into the +belief that he might yield. For example, he wanted a new overcoat +badly, but determined it was more prudent to wait, and a week +afterwards very nearly came to the conclusion that as he had not +ordered the coat he had actually accumulated a fund from which the +Moreh Nevochim might be purchased. When he came to the shop he saw +Barnes was there, and he persuaded himself he should have a quieter +moment or two with the precious volume when Clara was alone. Barnes, +of course, gossiped with everybody. + +He therefore called again in the evening, about half an hour before +closing time, and found that Barnes had gone home. Clara was busy +with a catalogue, the proof of which she was particularly anxious to +send to the printer that night. He did not disturb her, but took +down the Maimonides, and for a few moments was lost in revolving the +doctrine, afterwards repeated and proved by a greater than +Maimonides, that the will and power of God are co-extensive: that +there is nothing which might be and is not. It was familiar to +Baruch, but like all ideas of that quality and magnitude--and there +are not many of them--it was always new and affected him like a +starry night, seen hundreds of times, yet for ever infinite and +original. + +But was it Maimonides which kept him till the porter began to put up +the shutters? Was he pondering exclusively upon God as the folio lay +open before him? He did think about Him, but whether he would have +thought about Him for nearly twenty minutes if Clara had not been +there is another matter. + +'Do you walk home alone?' he said as she gave the proof to the boy +who stood waiting. + +'Yes, always.' + +'I am going to see Marshall to-night, but I must go to Newman Street +first. I shall be glad to walk with you, if you do not mind +diverging a little.' + +She consented and they went along Oxford Street without speaking, the +roar of the carriages and waggons preventing a word. + +They turned, however, into Bloomsbury, and were able to hear one +another. He had much to say and he could not begin to say it. There +was a great mass of something to be communicated pent up within him, +and he would have liked to pour it all out before her at once. It is +just at such times that we often take up as a means of expression and +relief that which is absurdly inexpressive and irrelevant. + +'I have not seen your sister yet; I hope I may see her this evening.' + +'I hope you may, but she frequently suffers from headache and prefers +to be alone.' + +'How do you like Mr Barnes?' + +The answer is not worth recording, nor is any question or answer +which was asked or returned for the next quarter of an hour worth +recording, although they were so interesting then. When they were +crossing Bedford Square on their return Clara happened to say amongst +other commonplaces, - + +'What a relief a quiet space in London is.' + +'I do not mind the crowd if I am by myself.' + +'I do not like crowds; I dislike even the word, and dislike "the +masses" still more. I do not want to think of human beings as if +they were a cloud of dust, and as if each atom had no separate +importance. London is often horrible to me for that reason. In the +country it was not quite so bad.' + +'That is an illusion,' said Baruch after a moment's pause. + +'I do not quite understand you, but if it be an illusion it is very +painful. In London human beings seem the commonest, cheapest things +in the world, and I am one of them. I went with Mr Marshall not long +ago to a Free Trade Meeting, and more than two thousand people were +present. Everybody told me it was magnificent, but it made me very +sad.' She was going on, but she stopped. How was it, she thought +again, that she could be so communicative? How was it? How is it +that sometimes a stranger crosses our path, with whom, before we have +known him for more than an hour, we have no secrets? An hour? we +have actually known him for centuries. + +She could not understand it, and she felt as if she had been +inconsistent with her constant professions of wariness in self- +revelation. + +'It is an illusion, nevertheless--an illusion of the senses. It is +difficult to make what I mean clear, because insight is not possible +beyond a certain point, and clearness does not come until penetration +is complete and what we acquire is brought into a line with other +acquisitions. It constantly happens that we are arrested short of +this point, but it would be wrong to suppose that our conclusions, if +we may call them so, are of no value.' + +She was silent, and he did not go on. At last he said, - + +'The illusion lies in supposing that number, quantity and terms of +that kind are applicable to any other than sensuous objects, but I +cannot go further, at least not now. After all, it is possible here +in London for one atom to be of eternal importance to another.' + +They had gone quite round Bedford Square without entering Great +Russell Street, which was the way eastwards. A drunken man was +holding on by the railings of the Square. He had apparently been +hesitating for some time whether he could reach the road, and, just +as Baruch and Clara came up to him, he made a lurch towards it, and +nearly fell over them. Clara instinctively seized Baruch's arm in +order to avoid the poor, staggering mortal; they went once more to +the right, and began to complete another circuit. Somehow her arm +had been drawn into Baruch's, and there it remained. + +'Have you any friends in London?' said Baruch. + +'There are Mrs Caffyn, her son and daughter, and there is Mr A. J. +Scott. He was a friend of my father.' + +'You mean the Mr Scott who was Irving's assistant?' + +'Yes.' + +'An addition--' he was about to say, 'an additional bond' but he +corrected himself. 'A bond between us; I know Mr Scott.' + +'Do you really? I suppose you know many interesting people in +London, as you are in his circle.' + +'Very few; weeks, months have passed since anybody has said as much +to me as you have.' + +His voice quivered a little, for he was trembling with an emotion +quite inexplicable by mere intellectual relationship. Something came +through Clara's glove as her hand rested on his wrist which ran +through every nerve and sent the blood into his head. + +Clara felt his excitement and dreaded lest he should say something to +which she could give no answer, and when they came opposite Great +Russell Street, she withdrew her arm from his, and began to cross to +the opposite pavement. She turned the conversation towards some +indifferent subject, and in a few minutes they were at Great Ormond +Street. Baruch would not go in as he had intended; he thought it was +about to rain, and he was late. As he went along he became calmer, +and when he was fairly indoors he had passed into a despair entirely +inconsistent--superficially--with the philosopher Baruch, as +inconsistent as the irrational behaviour in Bedford Square. He could +well enough interpret, so he believed, Miss Hopgood's suppression of +him. Ass that he was not to see what he ought to have known so well, +that he was playing the fool to her; he, with a grown-up son, to +pretend to romance with a girl! At that moment she might be mocking +him, or, if she was too good for mockery, she might be contriving to +avoid or to quench him. The next time he met her, he would be made +to understand that he was PITIED, and perhaps he would then learn the +name of the youth who was his rival, and had won her. He would often +meet her, no doubt, but of what value would anything he could say be +to her. She could not be expected to make fine distinctions, and +there was a class of elderly men, to which of course he would be +assigned, but the thought was too horrible. + +Perhaps his love for Clara might be genuine; perhaps it was not. He +had hoped that as he grew older he might be able really to SEE a +woman, but he was once more like one of the possessed. It was not +Clara Hopgood who was before him, it was hair, lips, eyes, just as it +was twenty years ago, just as it was with the commonest shop-boy he +met, who had escaped from the counter, and was waiting at an area +gate. It was terrible to him to find that he had so nearly lost his +self-control, but upon this point he was unjust to himself, for we +are often more distinctly aware of the strength of the temptation +than of the authority within us, which falteringly, but decisively, +enables us at last to resist it. + +Then he fell to meditating how little his studies had done for him. +What was the use of them? They had not made him any stronger, and he +was no better able than other people to resist temptation. After +twenty years continuous labour he found himself capable of the +vulgarest, coarsest faults and failings from which the remotest skiey +influence in his begetting might have saved him. + +Clara was not as Baruch. No such storm as that which had darkened +and disheartened him could pass over her, but she could love, perhaps +better than he, and she began to love him. It was very natural to a +woman such as Clara, for she had met a man who had said to her that +what she believed was really of some worth. Her father and mother +had been very dear to her; her sister was very dear to her, but she +had never received any such recognition as that which had now been +offered to her: her own self had never been returned to her with +such honour. She thought, too--why should she not think it?--of the +future, of the release from her dreary occupation, of a happy home +with independence, and she thought of the children that might be. +She lay down without any misgiving. She was sure he was in love with +her; she did not know much of him, certainly, in the usual meaning of +the word, but she knew enough. She would like to find out more of +his history; perhaps without exciting suspicion she might obtain it +from Mrs Caffyn. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + + +Mr Frank Palmer was back again in England. He was much distressed +when he received that last letter from Mrs Caffyn, and discovered +that Madge's resolution not to write remained unshaken. He was +really distressed, but he was not the man upon whom an event, however +deeply felt at the time, could score a furrow which could not be +obliterated. If he had been a dramatic personage, what had happened +to him would have been the second act leading to a fifth, in which +the Fates would have appeared, but life seldom arranges itself in +proper poetic form. A man determines that he must marry; he makes +the shop-girl an allowance, never sees her or her child again, +transforms himself into a model husband, is beloved by his wife and +family; the woman whom he kissed as he will never kiss his lawful +partner, withdraws completely, and nothing happens to him. + +Frank was sure he could never love anybody as he had loved Madge, nor +could he cut indifferently that other cord which bound him to her. +Nobody in society expects the same paternal love for the offspring of +a housemaid or a sempstress as for the child of the stockbroker's or +brewer's daughter, and nobody expects the same obligations, but Frank +was not a society youth, and Madge was his equal. A score of times, +when his fancy roved, the rope checked him as suddenly as if it were +the lasso of a South American Gaucho. But what could he do? that was +the point. There were one or two things which he could have done, +perhaps, and one or two things which he could not have done if he had +been made of different stuff; but there was nothing more to be done +which Frank Palmer could do. After all, it was better that Madge +should be the child's mother than that it should belong to some +peasant. At least it would be properly educated. As to money, Mrs +Caffyn had told him expressly that she did not want it. That might +be nothing but pride, and he resolved, without very clearly seeing +how, and without troubling himself for the moment as to details, that +Madge should be entirely and handsomely supported by him. Meanwhile +it was of great importance that he should behave in such a manner as +to raise no suspicion. He did not particularly care for some time +after his return from Germany to go out to the musical parties to +which he was constantly invited, but he went as a duty, and wherever +he went he met his charming cousin. They always sang together; they +had easy opportunities of practising together, and Frank, although +nothing definite was said to him, soon found that his family and hers +considered him destined for her. He could not retreat, and there was +no surprise manifested by anybody when it was rumoured that they were +engaged. His story may as well be finished at once. He and Miss +Cecilia Morland were married. A few days before the wedding, when +some legal arrangements and settlements were necessary, Frank made +one last effort to secure an income for Madge, but it failed. Mrs +Caffyn met him by appointment, but he could not persuade her even to +be the bearer of a message to Madge. He then determined to confess +his fears. To his great relief Mrs Caffyn of her own accord assured +him that he never need dread any disturbance or betrayal. + +'There are three of us,' she said, 'as knows you--Miss Madge, Miss +Clara and myself--and, as far as you are concerned, we are dead and +buried. I can't say as I was altogether of Miss Madge's way of +looking at it at first, and I thought it ought to have been +different, though I believe now as she's right, but,' and the old +woman suddenly fired up as if some bolt from heaven had kindled her, +'I pity you, sir--you, sir, I say--more nor I do her. You little +know what you've lost, the blessedest, sweetest, ah, and the +cleverest creature, too, as ever I set eyes on.' + +'But, Mrs Caffyn,' said Frank, with much emotion, 'it was not I who +left her, you know it was not, and, and even--' + +The word 'now' was coming, but it did not come. + +'Ah,' said Mrs Caffyn, with something like scorn, '_I_ know, yes, I +do know. It was she, you needn't tell me that, but, God-a-mighty in +heaven, if I'd been you, I'd have laid myself on the ground afore +her, I'd have tore my heart out for her, and I'd have said, "No other +woman in this world but you"--but there, what a fool I am! Goodbye, +Mr Palmer.' + +She marched away, leaving Frank very miserable, and, as he imagined, +unsettled, but he was not so. The fit lasted all day, but when he +was walking home that evening, he met a poor friend whose wife was +dying. + +'I am so grieved,' said Frank 'to hear of your trouble--no hope?' + +'None, I am afraid.' + +'It is very dreadful.' + +'Yes, it is hard to bear, but to what is inevitable we must submit.' + +This new phrase struck Frank very much, and it seemed very +philosophic to him, a maxim, for guidance through life. It did not +strike him that it was generally either a platitude or an excuse for +weakness, and that a nobler duty is to find out what is inevitable +and what is not, to declare boldly that what the world oftentimes +affirms to be inevitable is really evitable, and heroically to set +about making it so. Even if revolt be perfectly useless, we are not +particularly drawn to a man who prostrates himself too soon and is +incapable of a little cursing. + +As it was impossible to provide for Madge and the child now, Frank +considered whether he could not do something for them in the will +which he had to make before his marriage. He might help his daughter +if he could not help the mother. + +But his wife would perhaps survive him, and the discovery would cause +her and her children much misery; it would damage his character with +them and inflict positive moral mischief. The will, therefore, did +not mention Madge, and it was not necessary to tell his secret to his +solicitor. + +The wedding took place amidst much rejoicing; everybody thought the +couple were most delightfully matched; the presents were magnificent; +the happy pair went to Switzerland, came back and settled in one of +the smaller of the old, red brick houses in Stoke Newington, with a +lawn in front, always shaved and trimmed to the last degree of +smoothness and accuracy, with paths on whose gravel not the smallest +weed was ever seen, and with a hot-house that provided the most +luscious black grapes. There was a grand piano in the drawing-room, +and Frank and Cecilia became more musical than ever, and Waltham +Lodge was the headquarters of a little amateur orchestra which +practised Mozart and Haydn, and gave local concerts. A twelvemonth +after the marriage a son was born and Frank's father increased +Frank's share in the business. Mr Palmer had long ceased to take any +interest in the Hopgoods. He considered that Madge had treated Frank +shamefully in jilting him, but was convinced that he was fortunate in +his escape. It was clear that she was unstable; she probably threw +him overboard for somebody more attractive, and she was not the woman +to be a wife to his son. + +One day Cecilia was turning out some drawers belonging to her +husband, and she found a dainty little slipper wrapped up in white +tissue paper. She looked at it for a long time, wondering to whom it +could have belonged, and had half a mind to announce her discovery to +Frank, but she was a wise woman and forbore. It lay underneath some +neckties which were not now worn, two or three silk pocket +handkerchiefs also discarded, and some manuscript books containing +school themes. She placed them on the top of the drawers as if they +had all been taken out in a lump and the slipper was at the bottom. + +'Frank my dear,' she said after dinner, 'I emptied this morning one +of the drawers in the attic. I wish you would look over the things +and decide what you wish to keep. I have not examined them, but they +seem to be mostly rubbish.' + +He went upstairs after he had smoked his cigar and read his paper. +There was the slipper! It all came back to him, that never-to-be- +forgotten night, when she rebuked him for the folly of kissing her +foot, and he begged the slipper and determined to preserve it for +ever, and thought how delightful it would be to take it out and look +at it when he was an old man. Even now he did not like to destroy +it, but Cecilia might have seen it and might ask him what he had done +with it, and what could he say? Finally he decided to burn it. +There was no fire, however, in the room, and while he stood +meditating, Cecilia called him. He replaced the slipper in the +drawer. He could not return that evening, but he intended to go back +the next morning, take the little parcel away in his pocket and burn +it at his office. At breakfast some letters came which put +everything else out of mind. The first thing he did that evening was +to revisit the garret, but the slipper had gone. Cecilia had been +there and had found it carefully folded up in the drawer. She pulled +it out, snipped and tore it into fifty pieces, carried them +downstairs, threw them on the dining-room fire, sat down before it, +poking them further and further into the flames, and watched them +till every vestige had vanished. Frank did not like to make any +inquiries; Cecilia made none, and thence-forward no trace existed at +Waltham Lodge of Madge Hopgood. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + + +Baruch went neither to Barnes's shop nor to the Marshalls for nearly +a month. One Sunday morning he was poring over the Moreh Nevochim, +for it had proved too powerful a temptation for him, and he fell upon +the theorem that without God the Universe could not continue to +exist, for God is its Form. It was one of those sayings which may be +nothing or much to the reader. Whether it be nothing or much depends +upon the quality of his mind. + +There was certainly nothing in it particularly adapted to Baruch's +condition at that moment, but an antidote may be none the less +efficacious because it is not direct. It removed him to another +region. It was like the sight and sound of the sea to the man who +has been in trouble in an inland city. His self-confidence was +restored, for he to whom an idea is revealed becomes the idea, and is +no longer personal and consequently poor. + +His room seemed too small for him; he shut his book and went to Great +Ormond Street. He found there Marshall, Mrs Caffyn, Clara and a +friend of Marshall's named Dennis. + +'Where is your wife?' said Baruch to Marshall. + +'Gone with Miss Madge to the Catholic chapel to hear a mass of +Mozart's.' + +'Yes,' said Mrs Caffyn. 'I tell them they'll turn Papists if they do +not mind. They are always going to that place, and there's no +knowing, so I've hear'd, what them priests can do. They aren't like +our parsons. Catch that man at Great Oakhurst a-turnin' anybody.' + +'I suppose,' said Baruch to Clara, 'it is the music takes your sister +there?' + +'Mainly, I believe, but perhaps not entirely.' + +'What other attraction can there be?' + +'I am not in the least disposed to become a convert. Once for all, +Catholicism is incredible and that is sufficient, but there is much +in its ritual which suits me. There is no such intrusion of the +person of the minister as there is in the Church of England, and +still worse amongst dissenters. In the Catholic service the priest +is nothing; it is his office which is everything; he is a mere means +of communication. The mass, in so far as it proclaims that miracle +is not dead, is also very impressive to me.' + +'I do not quite understand you,' said Marshall, 'but if you once +chuck your reason overboard, you may just as well be Catholic as +Protestant. Nothing can be more ridiculous than the Protestant +objection, on the ground of absurdity, to the story of the saint +walking about with his head under his arm.' + +The tea things had been cleared away, and Marshall was smoking. Both +he and Dennis were Chartists, and Baruch had interrupted a debate +upon a speech delivered at a Chartist meeting that morning by Henry +Vincent. + +Frederick Dennis was about thirty, tall and rather loose-limbed. He +wore loose clothes, his neck-cloth was tied in a big, loose knot, his +feet were large and his boots were heavy. His face was quite smooth, +and his hair, which was very thick and light brown, fell across his +forehead in a heavy wave with just two complete undulations in it +from the parting at the side to the opposite ear. It had a trick of +tumbling over his eyes, so that his fingers were continually passed +through it to brush it away. He was a wood engraver, or, as he +preferred to call himself, an artist, but he also wrote for the +newspapers, and had been a contributor to the Northern Star. He was +well brought up and was intended for the University, but he did not +stick to his Latin and Greek, and as he showed some talent for +drawing he was permitted to follow his bent. His work, however, was +not of first-rate quality, and consequently orders were not abundant. +This was the reason why he had turned to literature. When he had any +books to illustrate he lived upon what they brought him, and when +there were no books he renewed his acquaintance with politics. If +books and newspapers both failed, he subsisted on a little money +which had been left him, stayed with friends as long as he could, and +amused himself by writing verses which showed much command over +rhyme. + +'I cannot stand Vincent,' said Marshall, 'he is too flowery for me, +and he does not belong to the people. He is middle-class to the +backbone.' + +'He is deficient in ideas,' said Dennis. + +'It is odd,' continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, 'that your race +never takes any interest in politics.' + +'My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no national home. It +took an interest in politics when it was in its own country, and +produced some rather remarkable political writing.' + +'But why do you care so little for what is going on now?' + +'I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, and, +furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish all you +expect.' + +'I know what is coming'--Marshall took the pipe out of his mouth and +spoke with perceptible sarcasm--'the inefficiency of merely external +remedies, the folly of any attempt at improvement which does not +begin with the improvement of individual character, and that those to +whom we intend to give power are no better than those from whom we +intend to take it away. All very well, Mr Cohen. My answer is that +at the present moment the stockingers in Leicester are earning four +shillings and sixpence a week. It is not a question whether they are +better or worse than their rulers. They want something to eat, they +have nothing, and their masters have more than they can eat.' + +'Apart altogether from purely material reasons,' said Dennis, 'we +have rights; we are born into this planet without our consent, and, +therefore, we may make certain demands.' + +'Do you not think,' said Clara, 'that the repeal of the corn laws +will help you?' + +Dennis smiled and was about to reply, but Marshall broke out +savagely, - + +'Repeal of the corn laws is a contemptible device of manufacturing +selfishness. It means low wages. Do you suppose the great +Manchester cotton lords care one straw for their hands? Not they! +They will face a revolution for repeal because it will enable them to +grind an extra profit out of us.' + +'I agree with you entirely,' said Dennis, turning to Clara, 'that a +tax upon food is wrong; it is wrong in the abstract. The notion of +taxing bread, the fruit of the earth, is most repulsive; but the +point is--what is our policy to be? If a certain end is to be +achieved, we must neglect subordinate ends, and, at times, even +contradict what our own principles would appear to dictate. That is +the secret of successful leadership.' + +He took up the poker and stirred the fire. + +'That will do, Dennis,' said Marshall, who was evidently fidgety. +'The room is rather warm. There's nothing in Vincent which irritates +me more than those bits of poetry with which he winds up. + + +"God made the man--man made the slave," + + +and all that stuff. If God made the man, God made the slave. I know +what Vincent's little game is, and it is the same game with all his +set. They want to keep Chartism religious, but we shall see. Let us +once get the six points, and the Established Church will go, and we +shall have secular education, and in a generation there will not be +one superstition left.' + +'Theological superstition, you mean?' said Clara. + +'Yes, of course, what others are there worth notice?' + +'A few. The superstition of the ordinary newspaper reader is just as +profound, and the tyranny of the majority may be just as injurious as +the superstition of a Spanish peasant, or the tyranny of the +Inquisition.' + +'Newspapers will not burn people as the priests did and would do +again if they had the power, and they do not insult us with fables +and a hell and a heaven.' + +'I maintain,' said Clara with emphasis, 'that if a man declines to +examine, and takes for granted what a party leader or a newspaper +tells him, he has no case against the man who declines to examine, or +takes for granted what the priest tells him. Besides, although, as +you know, I am not a convert myself, I do lose a little patience when +I hear it preached as a gospel to every poor conceited creature who +goes to your Sunday evening atheist lecture, that he is to believe +nothing on one particular subject which his own precious intellect +cannot verify, and the next morning he finds it to be his duty to +swallow wholesale anything you please to put into his mouth. As to +the tyranny, the day may come, and I believe is approaching, when the +majority will be found to be more dangerous than any ecclesiastical +establishment which ever existed.' + +Baruch's lips moved, but he was silent. He was not strong in +argument. He was thinking about Marshall's triumphant inquiry +whether God is not responsible for slavery. He would have liked to +say something on that subject, but he had nothing ready. + +'Practical people,' said Dennis, who had not quite recovered from the +rebuke as to the warmth of the room, 'are often most unpractical and +injudicious. Nothing can be more unwise than to mix up politics and +religion. If you DO,' Dennis waved his hand, 'you will have all the +religious people against you. My friend Marshall, Miss Hopgood, is +under the illusion that the Church in this country is tottering to +its fall. Now, although I myself belong to no sect, I do not share +his illusion; nay, more, I am not sure'--Mr Dennis spoke slowly, +rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling--'I am not sure that +there is not something to be said in favour of State endowment--at +least, in a country like Ireland.' + +'Come along, Dennis, we shall be late,' said Marshall, and the two +forthwith took their departure in order to attend another meeting. + +'Much either of 'em knows about it,' said Mrs Caffyn when they had +gone. 'There's Marshall getting two pounds a week reg'lar, and goes +on talking about people at Leicester, and he has never been in +Leicester in his life; and, as for that Dennis, he knows less than +Marshall, for he does nothing but write for newspapers and draw for +picture-books, never nothing what you may call work, and he does +worrit me so whenever he begins about poor people that I can't sit +still. _I_ do know what the poor is, having lived at Great Oakhurst +all these years.' + +'You are not a Chartist, then?' said Baruch. + +'Me--me a Chartist? No, I ain't, and yet, maybe, I'm something +worse. What would be the use of giving them poor creatures votes? +Why, there isn't one of them as wouldn't hold up his hand for anybody +as would give him a shilling. Quite right of 'em, too, for the one +thing they have to think about from morning to night is how to get a +bit of something to fill their bellies, and they won't fill them by +voting.' + +'But what would you do for them?' + +'Ah! that beats me! Hang somebody, but I don't know who it ought to +be. There's a family by the name of Longwood, they live just on the +slope of the hill nigh the Dower Farm, and there's nine of them, and +the youngest when I left was a baby six months old, and their living- +room faces the road so that the north wind blows in right under the +door, and I've seen the snow lie in heaps inside. As reg'lar as +winter comes Longwood is knocked off--no work. I've knowed them not +have a bit of meat for weeks together, and him a-loungin' about at +the corner of the street. Wasn't that enough to make him feel as if +somebody ought to be killed? And Marshall and Dennis say as the +proper thing to do is to give him a vote, and prove to him there was +never no Abraham nor Isaac, and that Jonah never was in a whale's +belly, and that nobody had no business to have more children than he +could feed. And what goes on, and what must go on, inside such a +place as Longwood's, with him and his wife, and with them boys and +gals all huddled together--But I'd better hold my tongue. We'll let +the smoke out of this room, I think, and air it a little.' + +She opened the window, and Baruch rose and went home. + +Whenever Mrs Caffyn talked about the labourers at Great Oakhurst, +whom she knew so well, Clara always felt as if all her reading had +been a farce, and, indeed, if we come into close contact with actual +life, art, poetry and philosophy seem little better than trifling. +When the mist hangs over the heavy clay land in January, and men and +women shiver in the bitter cold and eat raw turnips, to indulge in +fireside ecstasies over the divine Plato or Shakespeare is surely not +such a virtue as we imagine it to be. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + + +Baruch sat and mused before he went to bed. He had gone out stirred +by an idea, but it was already dead. Then he began to think about +Clara. Who was this Dennis who visited the Marshalls and the +Hopgoods? Oh! for an hour of his youth! Fifteen years ago the word +would have come unbidden if he had seen Clara, but now, in place of +the word, there was hesitation, shame. He must make up his mind to +renounce for ever. But, although this conclusion had forced itself +upon him overnight as inevitable, he could not resist the temptation +when he rose the next morning of plotting to meet Clara, and he +walked up and down the street opposite the shop door that evening +nearly a quarter of an hour, just before closing time, hoping that +she might come out and that he might have the opportunity of +overtaking her apparently by accident. At last, fearing he might +miss her, he went in and found she had a companion whom he instantly +knew, before any induction, to be her sister. Madge was not now the +Madge whom we knew at Fenmarket. She was thinner in the face and +paler. Nevertheless, she was not careless; she was even more +particular in her costume, but it was simpler. If anything, perhaps, +she was a little prouder. She was more attractive, certainly, than +she had ever been, although her face could not be said to be +handsomer. The slight prominence of the cheek-bone, the slight +hollow underneath, the loss of colour, were perhaps defects, but they +said something which had a meaning in it superior to that of the tint +of the peach. She had been reading a book while Clara was balancing +her cash, and she attempted to replace it. The shelf was a little +too high, and the volume fell upon the ground. It contained +Shelley's Revolt of Islam. + +'Have you read Shelley?' said Baruch. + +'Every line--when I was much younger.' + +'Do you read him now?' + +'Not much. I was an enthusiast for him when I was nineteen, but I +find that his subject matter is rather thin, and his themes are a +little worn. He was entirely enslaved by the ideals of the French +Revolution. Take away what the French Revolution contributed to his +poetry, and there is not much left.' + +'As a man he is not very attractive to me.' + +'Nor to me; I never shall forgive his treatment of Harriet.' + +'I suppose he had ceased to love her, and he thought, therefore, he +was justified in leaving her.' + +Madge turned and fixed her eyes, unobserved, on Baruch. He was +looking straight at the bookshelves. There was not, and, indeed, how +could there be, any reference to herself. + +'I should put it in this way,' she said, 'that he thought he was +justified in sacrificing a woman for the sake of an IMPULSE. Call +this a defect or a crime--whichever you like--it is repellent to me. +It makes no difference to me to know that he believed the impulse to +be divine.' + +'I wish,' interrupted Clara, 'you two would choose less exciting +subjects of conversation; my totals will not come right.' + +They were silent, and Baruch, affecting to study a Rollin's Ancient +History, wondered, especially when he called to mind Mrs Caffyn's +report, what this girl's history could have been. He presently +recovered himself, and it occurred to him that he ought to give some +reason why he had called. Before, however, he was able to offer any +excuse, Clara closed her book. + +'Now, it is right,' she said, 'and I am ready.' + +Just at that moment Barnes appeared, hot with hurrying. + +'Very sorry, Miss Hopgood, to ask you to stay for a few minutes. I +recollected after I left that the doctor particularly wanted those +books sent off to-night. I should not like to disappoint him. I +have been to the booking-office, and the van will be here in about +twenty minutes. If you will make out the invoice and check me, I +will pack them.' + +'I will be off,' said Madge. 'The shop will be shut if I do not make +haste.' + +'You are not going alone, are you?' said Baruch. 'May I not go with +you, and cannot we both come back for your sister?' + +'It is very kind of you.' + +Clara looked up from her desk, watched them as they went out at the +door and, for a moment, seemed lost. Barnes turned round. + +'Now, Miss Hopgood.' She started. + +'Yes, sir.' + +'Fabricius, J. A. Bibliotheca Ecclesiastica in qua continentur.' + +'I need not put in the last three words.' + +'Yes, yes.' Barnes never liked to be corrected in a title. 'There's +another Fabricius Bibliotheca or Bibliographia. Go on--Basili opera +ad MSS. codices, 3 vols.' + +Clara silently made the entries a little more scholarly. In a +quarter of an hour the parcel was ready and Cohen returned. + +'Your sister would not allow me to wait. She met Mrs Marshall; they +said they should have something to carry, and that it was not worth +while to bring it here. I will walk with you, if you will allow me. +We may as well avoid Holborn.' + +They turned into Gray's Inn, and, when they were in comparative +quietude, he said, - + +'Any Chartist news?' and then without waiting for an answer, 'By the +way, who is your friend Dennis?' + +'He is no particular friend of mine. He is a wood-engraver, and +writes also, I believe, for the newspapers.' + +'He can talk as well as write.' + +'Yes, he can talk very well.' + +'Do you not think there was something unreal about what he said?' + +'I do not believe he is actually insincere. I have noticed that men +who write or read much often appear somewhat shadowy.' + +'How do you account for it?' + +'What they say is not experience.' + +'I do not quite understand. A man may think much which can never +become an experience in your sense of the word, and be very much in +earnest with what he thinks; the thinking is an experience.' + +'Yes, I suppose so, but it is what a person has gone through which I +like to hear. Poor Dennis has suffered much. You are perhaps +surprised, but it is true, and when he leaves politics alone he is a +different creature.' + +'I am afraid I must be very uninteresting to you?' + +'I did not mean that I care for nothing but my friend's aches and +pains, but that I do not care for what he just takes up and takes +on.' + +'It is my misfortune that my subjects are not very--I was about to +say--human. Perhaps it is because I am a Jew.' + +'I do not know quite what you mean by your "subjects," but if you +mean philosophy and religion, they are human.' + +'If they are, very few people like to hear anything about them. Do +you know, Miss Hopgood, I can never talk to anybody as I can to you.' + +Clara made no reply. A husband was to be had for a look, for a +touch, a husband whom she could love, a husband who could give her +all her intellect demanded. A little house rose before her eyes as +if by Arabian enchantment; there was a bright fire on the hearth, and +there were children round it; without the look, the touch, there +would be solitude, silence and a childless old age, so much more to +be feared by a woman than by a man. Baruch paused, waiting for her +answer, and her tongue actually began to move with a reply, which +would have sent his arm round her, and made them one for ever, but it +did not come. Something fell and flashed before her like lightning +from a cloud overhead, divinely beautiful, but divinely terrible. + +'I remember,' she said, 'that I have to call in Lamb's Conduit Street +to buy something for my sister. I shall just be in time.' Baruch +went as far as Lamb's Conduit Street with her. He, too, would have +determined his own destiny if she had uttered the word, but the power +to proceed without it was wanting and he fell back. He left her at +the door of the shop. She bid him good-bye, obviously intending that +he should go no further with her, and he shook hands with her, taking +her hand again and shaking it again with a grasp which she knew well +enough was too fervent for mere friendship. He then wandered back +once more to his old room at Clerkenwell. The fire was dead, he +stirred it, the cinders fell through the grate and it dropped out all +together. He made no attempt to rekindle it, but sat staring at the +black ashes, not thinking, but dreaming. Thirty years more perhaps +with no change! The last chance that he could begin a new life had +disappeared. He cursed himself that nothing drove him out of himself +with Marshall and his fellowmen; that he was not Chartist nor +revolutionary; but it was impossible to create in himself enthusiasm +for a cause. He had tried before to become a patriot and had failed, +and was conscious, during the trial, that he was pretending to be +something he was not and could not be. There was nothing to be done +but to pace the straight road in front of him, which led nowhere, so +far as he could see. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + + +A month afterwards Marshall announced that he intended to pay a +visit. + +'I am going,' he said, 'to see Mazzini. Who will go with me?' + +Clara and Madge were both eager to accompany him. Mrs Caffyn and Mrs +Marshall chose to stay at home. + +'I shall ask Cohen to come with us,' said Marshall. 'He has never +seen Mazzini and would like to know him.' Cohen accordingly called +one Sunday evening, and the party went together to a dull, dark, +little house in a shabby street of small shops and furnished +apartments. When they knocked at Mazzini's door Marshall asked for +Mr --- for, even in England, Mazzini had an assumed name which was +always used when inquiries were made for him. They were shown +upstairs into a rather mean room, and found there a man, really about +forty, but looking older. He had dark hair growing away from his +forehead, dark moustache, dark beard and a singularly serious face. +It was not the face of a conspirator, but that of a saint, although +without that just perceptible touch of silliness which spoils the +faces of most saints. It was the face of a saint of the Reason, of a +man who could be ecstatic for rational ideals, rarest of all +endowments. It was the face, too, of one who knew no fear, or, if he +knew it, could crush it. He was once concealed by a poor woman whose +house was surrounded by Austrian soldiers watching for him. He was +determined that she should not be sacrificed, and, having disguised +himself a little, walked out into the street in broad daylight, went +up to the Austrian sentry, asked for a light for his cigar and +escaped. He was cordial in his reception of his visitors, +particularly of Clara, Madge and Cohen, whom he had not seen before. + +'The English,' he said, after some preliminary conversation, 'are a +curious people. As a nation they are what they call practical and +have a contempt for ideas, but I have known some Englishmen who have +a religious belief in them, a nobler belief than I have found in any +other nation. There are English women, also, who have this faith, +and one or two are amongst my dearest friends.' + +'I never,' said Marshall, 'quite comprehend you on this point. I +should say that we know as clearly as most folk what we want, and we +mean to have it.' + +'That may be, but it is not Justice, as Justice which inspires you. +Those of you who have not enough, desire to have more, that is all.' + +'If we are to succeed, we must preach what the people understand.' + +'Pardon me, that is just where you and I differ. Whenever any real +good is done it is by a crusade; that is to say, the cross must be +raised and appeal be made to something ABOVE the people. No system +based on rights will stand. Never will society be permanent till it +is founded on duty. If we consider our rights exclusively, we extend +them over the rights of our neighbours. If the oppressed classes had +the power to obtain their rights to-morrow, and with the rights came +no deeper sense of duty, the new order, for the simple reason that +the oppressed are no better than their oppressors, would be just as +unstable as that which preceded it.' + +'To put it in my own language,' said Madge, 'you believe in God.' + +Mazzini leaned forward and looked earnestly at her. + +'My dear young friend, without that belief I should have no other.' + +'I should like, though,' said Marshall, 'to see the church which +would acknowledge you and Miss Madge, or would admit your God to be +theirs.' + +'What is essential,' replied Madge, 'in a belief in God is absolute +loyalty to a principle we know to have authority.' + +'It may, perhaps,' said Mazzini, 'be more to me, but you are right, +it is a belief in the supremacy and ultimate victory of the +conscience.' + +'The victory seems distant in Italy now,' said Baruch. 'I do not +mean the millennial victory of which you speak, but an approximation +to it by the overthrow of tyranny there.' + +'You are mistaken; it is far nearer than you imagine.' + +'Do you obtain,' said Clara, 'any real help from people here? Do you +not find that they merely talk and express what they call their +sympathy?' + +'I must not say what help I have received; more than words, though, +from many.' + +'You expect, then,' said Baruch, 'that the Italians will answer your +appeal?' + +'If I had no faith in the people, I do not see what faith could +survive.' + +'The people are the persons you meet in the street.' + +'A people is not a mere assemblage of uninteresting units, but it is +not a phantom. A spirit lives in each nation which is superior to +any individual in it. It is this which is the true reality, the +nation's purpose and destiny, it is this for which the patriot lives +and dies.' + +'I suppose,' said Clara, 'you have no difficulty in obtaining +volunteers for any dangerous enterprise?' + +'None. You would be amazed if I were to tell you how many men and +women at this very moment would go to meet certain death if I were to +ask them.' + +'Women?' + +'Oh, yes; and women are of the greatest use, but it is rather +difficult to find those who have the necessary qualifications.' + +'I suppose you employ them in order to obtain secret information?' + +'Yes; amongst the Austrians.' + +The party broke up. Baruch manoeuvred to walk with Clara, but +Marshall wanted to borrow a book from Mazzini, and she stayed behind +for him. Madge was outside in the street, and Baruch could do +nothing but go to her. She seemed unwilling to wait, and Baruch and +she went slowly homewards, thinking the others would overtake them. +The conversation naturally turned upon Mazzini. + +'Although,' said Madge, 'I have never seen him before, I have heard +much about him and he makes me sad.' + +'Why?' + +'Because he has done something worth doing and will do more.' + +'But why should that make you sad?' + +'I do not think there is anything sadder than to know you are able to +do a little good and would like to do it, and yet you are not +permitted to do it. Mazzini has a world open to him large enough for +the exercise of all his powers.' + +'It is worse to have a desire which is intense but not definite, to +be continually anxious to do something, you know not what, and always +to feel, if any distinct task is offered, your incapability of +attempting it.' + +'A man, if he has a real desire to be of any service, can generally +gratify it to some extent; a woman as a rule cannot, although a +woman's enthusiasm is deeper than a man's. You can join Mazzini to- +morrow, I suppose, if you like.' + +'It is a supposition not quite justifiable, and if I were free to go +I could not.' + +'Why?' + +'I am not fitted for such work; I have not sufficient faith. When I +see a flag waving, a doubt always intrudes. Long ago I was forced to +the conclusion that I should have to be content with a life which did +not extend outside itself.' + +'I am sure that many women blunder into the wrong path, not because +they are bad, but simply because--if I may say so--they are too +good.' + +'Maybe you are right. The inability to obtain mere pleasure has not +produced the misery which has been begotten of mistaken or baffled +self-sacrifice. But do you mean to say that you would like to enlist +under Mazzini?' + +'No!' + +Baruch thought she referred to her child, and he was silent. + +'You are a philosopher,' said Madge, after a pause. 'Have you never +discovered anything which will enable us to submit to be useless?' + +'That is to say, have I discovered a religion? for the core of +religion is the relationship of the individual to the whole, the +faith that the poorest and meanest of us is a person. That is the +real strength of all religions.' + +'Well, go on; what do you believe?' + +'I can only say it like a creed; I have no demonstration, at least +none such as I would venture to put into words. Perhaps the highest +of all truths is incapable of demonstration and can only be stated. +Perhaps, also, the statement, at least to some of us, is a sufficient +demonstration. I believe that inability to imagine a thing is not a +reason for its non-existence. If the infinite is a conclusion which +is forced upon me, the fact that I cannot picture it does not +disprove it. I believe, also, in thought and the soul, and it is +nothing to me that I cannot explain them by attributes belonging to +body. That being so, the difficulties which arise from the perpetual +and unconscious confusion of the qualities of thought and soul with +those of body disappear. Our imagination represents to itself souls +like pebbles, and asks itself what count can be kept of a million, +but number in such a case is inapplicable. I believe that all +thought is a manifestation of the Being, who is One, whom you may +call God if you like, and that, as It never was created, It will +never be destroyed.' + +'But,' said Madge, interrupting him, 'although you began by warning +me not to expect that you would prove anything, you can tell me +whether you have any kind of basis for what you say, or whether it is +all a dream.' + +'You will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that mathematics, which, of +course, I had to learn for my own business, have supplied something +for a foundation. They lead to ideas which are inconsistent with the +notion that the imagination is a measure of all things. Mind, I do +not for a moment pretend that I have any theory which explains the +universe. It is something, however, to know that the sky is as real +as the earth.' + +They had now reached Great Ormond Street, and parted. Clara and +Marshall were about five minutes behind them. Madge was unusually +cheerful when they sat down to supper. + +'Clara,' she said, 'what made you so silent to-night at Mazzini's?' +Clara did not reply, but after a pause of a minute or two, she asked +Mrs Caffyn whether it would not be possible for them all to go into +the country on Whitmonday? Whitsuntide was late; it would be warm, +and they could take their food with them and eat it out of doors. + +'Just the very thing, my dear, if we could get anything cheap to take +us; the baby, of course, must go with us. + +'I should like above everything to go to Great Oakhurst.' + +'What, five of us--twenty miles there and twenty miles back! +Besides, although I love the place, it isn't exactly what one would +go to see just for a day. No! Letherhead or Mickleham or Darkin +would be ever so much better. They are too far, though, and, then, +that man Baruch must go with us. He'd be company for Marshall, and +he sticks up in Clerkenwell and never goes nowhere. You remember as +Marshall said as he must ask him the next time we had an outing.' + +Clara had not forgotten it. + +'Ah,' continued Mrs Caffyn, 'I should just love to show you +Mickleham.' + +Mrs Caffyn's heart yearned after her Surrey land. The man who is +born in a town does not know what it is to be haunted through life by +lovely visions of the landscape which lay about him when he was +young. The village youth leaves the home of his childhood for the +city, but the river doubling on itself, the overhanging alders and +willows, the fringe of level meadow, the chalk hills bounding the +river valley and rising against the sky, with here and there on their +summits solitary clusters of beech, the light and peace of the +different seasons, of morning, afternoon and evening, never forsake +him. To think of them is not a mere luxury; their presence modifies +the whole of his life. + +'I don't see how it is to be managed,' she mused; 'and yet there's +nothing near London as I'd give two pins to see. There's Richmond as +we went to one Sunday; it was no better, to my way of thinking, than +looking at a picture. I'd ever so much sooner be a-walking across +the turnips by the footpath from Darkin home.' + +'Couldn't we, for once in a way, stay somewhere over-night?' + +'It might as well be two,' said Mrs Marshall; 'Saturday and Sunday.' + +'Two,' said Madge; 'I vote for two.' + +'Wait a bit, my dears, we're a precious awkward lot to fit in-- +Marshall and his wife me and you and Miss Clara and the baby; and +then there's Baruch, who's odd man, so to speak; that's three +bedrooms. We sha'n't do it--Otherwise, I was a-thinking--' + +'What were you thinking?' said Marshall. + +'I've got it,' said Mrs Caffyn, joyously. 'Miss Clara and me will go +to Great Oakhurst on the Friday. We can easy enough stay at my old +shop. Marshall and Sarah, Miss Madge, the baby and Baruch can go to +Letherhead on the Saturday morning. The two women and the baby can +have one of the rooms at Skelton's, and Marshall and Baruch can have +the other. Then, on Sunday morning, Miss Clara and me we'll come +over for you, and we'll all walk through Norbury Park. That'll be +ever so much better in many ways. Miss Clara and me, we'll go by the +coach. Six of us, not reckoning the baby, in that heavy ginger-beer +cart of Masterman's would be too much.' + +'An expensive holiday, rather,' said Marshall. + +'Leave that to me; that's my business. I ain't quite a beggar, and +if we can't take our pleasure once a year, it's a pity. We aren't +like some folk as messes about up to Hampstead every Sunday, and +spends a fortune on shrimps and donkeys. No; when I go away, it IS +away, maybe it's only for a couple of days, where I can see a blessed +ploughed field; no shrimps nor donkeys for me.' + + + +CHARTER XXIX + + + +So it was settled, and on the Friday Clara and Mrs Caffyn journeyed +to Great Oakhurst. They were both tired, and went to bed very early, +in order that they might enjoy the next day. Clara, always a light +sleeper, woke between three and four, rose and went to the little +casement window which had been open all night. Below her, on the +left, the church was just discernible, and on the right, the broad +chalk uplands leaned to the south, and were waving with green barley +and wheat. Underneath her lay the cottage garden, with its row of +beehives in the north-east corner, sheltered from the cold winds by +the thick hedge. It had evidently been raining a little, for the +drops hung on the currant bushes, but the clouds had been driven by +the south-westerly wind into the eastern sky, where they lay in a +long, low, grey band. Not a sound was to be heard, save every now +and then the crow of a cock or the short cry of a just-awakened +thrush. High up on the zenith, the approach of the sun to the +horizon was proclaimed by the most delicate tints of rose-colour, but +the cloud-bank above him was dark and untouched, although the blue +which was over it, was every moment becoming paler. Clara watched; +she was moved even to tears by the beauty of the scene, but she was +stirred by something more than beauty, just as he who was in the +Spirit and beheld a throne and One sitting thereon, saw something +more than loveliness, although He was radiant with the colour of +jasper and there was a rainbow round about Him like an emerald to +look upon. In a few moments the highest top of the cloud-rampart was +kindled, and the whole wavy outline became a fringe of flame. In a +few moments more the fire just at one point became blinding, and in +another second the sun emerged, the first arrowy shaft passed into +her chamber, the first shadow was cast, and it was day. She put her +hands to her face; the tears fell faster, but she wiped them away and +her great purpose was fixed. She crept back into bed, her agitation +ceased, a strange and almost supernatural peace overshadowed her and +she fell asleep not to wake till the sound of the scythe had ceased +in the meadow just beyond the rick-yard that came up to one side of +the cottage, and the mowers were at their breakfast. + +Neither Mrs Caffyn nor Clara thought of seeing the Letherhead party +on Saturday. They could not arrive before the afternoon, and it was +considered hardly worth while to walk from Great Oakhurst to +Letherhead merely for the sake of an hour or two. In the morning Mrs +Caffyn was so busy with her old friends that she rather tired +herself, and in the evening Clara went for a stroll. She did not +know the country, but she wandered on until she came to a lane which +led down to the river. At the bottom of the lane she found herself +at a narrow, steep, stone bridge. She had not been there more than +three or four minutes before she descried two persons coming down the +lane from Letherhead. When they were about a couple of hundred yards +from her they turned into the meadow over the stile, and struck the +river-bank some distance below the point where she was. It was +impossible to mistake them; they were Madge and Baruch. They +sauntered leisurely; presently Baruch knelt down over the water, +apparently to gather something which he gave to Madge. They then +crossed another stile and were lost behind the tall hedge which +stopped further view of the footpath in that direction. + +'The message then was authentic,' she said to herself. 'I thought I +could not have misunderstood it.' + +On Sunday morning Clara wished to stay at home. She pleaded that she +preferred rest, but Mrs Caffyn vowed there should be no Norbury Park +if Clara did not go, and the kind creature managed to persuade a pig- +dealer to drive them over to Letherhead for a small sum, +notwithstanding it was Sunday. The whole party then set out; the +baby was drawn in a borrowed carriage which also took the provisions, +and they were fairly out of the town before the Letherhead bells had +ceased ringing for church. It was one of the sweetest of Sundays, +sunny, but masses of white clouds now and then broke the heat. The +park was reached early in the forenoon, and it was agreed that dinner +should be served under one of the huge beech trees at the lower end, +as the hill was a little too steep for the baby-carriage in the hot +sun. + +'This is very beautiful,' said Marshall, when dinner was over, 'but +it is not what we came to see. We ought to move upwards to the +Druid's grove.' + +'Yes, you be off, the whole lot of you,' said Mrs Caffyn. 'I know +every tree there, and I ain't going there this afternoon. Somebody +must stay here to look after the baby; you can't wheel her, you'll +have to carry her, and you won't enjoy yourselves much more for +moiling along with her up that hill.' + +'I will stay with you,' said Clara. + +Everybody protested, but Clara was firm. She was tired, and the sun +had given her a headache. Madge pleaded that it was she who ought to +remain behind, but at last gave way for her sister looked really +fatigued. + +'There's a dear child,' said Clara, when Madge consented to go. 'I +shall lie on the grass and perhaps go to sleep.' + +'It is a pity,' said Baruch to Madge as they went away, 'that we are +separated; we must come again.' + +'Yes, I am sorry, but perhaps it is better she should be where she +is; she is not particularly strong, and is obliged to be very +careful.' + +In due time they all came to the famous yews, and sat down on one of +the seats overlooking that wonderful gate in the chalk downs through +which the Mole passes northwards. + +'We must go,' said Marshall, 'a little bit further and see the oak.' + +'Not another step,' said his wife. 'You can go it you like.' + +'Content; nothing could be pleasanter than to sit here,' and he +pulled out his pipe; 'but really, Miss Madge, to leave Norbury +without paying a visit to the oak is a pity.' + +He did not offer, however, to accompany her. + +'It is the most extraordinary tree in these parts,' said Baruch; 'of +incalculable age and with branches spreading into a tent big enough +to cover a regiment. Marshall is quite right.' + +'Where is it?' + +'Not above a couple of hundred yards further; just round the corner.' + +Madge rose and looked. + +'No; it is not visible here; it stands a little way back. If you +come a little further you will catch a glimpse of it.' + +She followed him and presently the oak came in view. They climbed up +the bank and went nearer to it. The whole vale was underneath them +and part of the weald with the Sussex downs blue in the distance. +Baruch was not much given to raptures over scenery, but the +indifference of Nature to the world's turmoil always appealed to him. + +'You are not now discontented because you cannot serve under +Mazzini?' + +'Not now.' + +There was nothing in her reply on the face of it of any particular +consequence to Baruch. She might simply have intended that the +beauty of the fair landscape extinguished her restlessness, or that +she saw her own unfitness, but neither of these interpretations +presented itself to him. + +'I have sometimes thought,' continued Baruch, slowly, 'that the love +of any two persons in this world may fulfil an eternal purpose which +is as necessary to the Universe as a great revolution.' + +Madge's eyes moved round from the hills and they met Baruch's. No +syllable was uttered, but swiftest messages passed, question and +answer. There was no hesitation on his part now, no doubt, the woman +and the moment had come. The last question was put, the final answer +was given; he took her hand in his and came closer to her. + +'Stop!' she whispered, 'do you know my history?' + +He did not reply, but fell upon her neck. This was the goal to which +both had been journeying all these years, although with much weary +mistaking of roads; this was what from the beginning was designed for +both! Happy Madge! happy Baruch! There are some so closely akin +that the meaning of each may be said to lie in the other, who do not +approach till it is too late. They travel towards one another, but +are waylaid and detained, and just as they are within greeting, one +of them drops and dies. + +They left the tree and went back to the Marshalls, and then down the +hill to Mrs Caffyn and Clara. Clara was much better for her rest, +and early in the evening the whole party returned to Letherhead, +Clara and Mrs Caffyn going on to Great Oakhurst. Madge kept close to +her sister till they separated, and the two men walked together. On +Whitmonday morning the Letherhead people came over to Great Oakhurst. +They had to go back to London in the afternoon, but Mrs Caffyn and +Clara were to stay till Tuesday, as they stood a better chance of +securing places by the coach on that day. Mrs Caffyn had as much to +show them as if the village had been the Tower of London. The wonder +of wonders, however, was a big house, where she was well known, and +its hot-houses. Madge wanted to speak to Clara, but it was difficult +to find a private opportunity. When they were in the garden, +however, she managed to take Clara unobserved down one of the twisted +paths, under pretence of admiring an ancient mulberry tree. + +'Clara,' she said, 'I want a word with you. Baruch Cohen loves me.' + +'Do you love him?' + +'Yes.' + +'Without a shadow of a doubt?' + +'Without a shadow of a doubt.' + +Clara put her arm round her sister, kissed her tenderly and said, - + +'Then I am perfectly happy.' + +'Did you suspect it?' + +'I knew it.' + +Mrs Caffyn called them; it was time to be moving, and soon afterwards +those who had to go to London that afternoon left for Letherhead. +Clara stood at the gate for a long time watching them along the +straight, white road. They came to the top of the hill; she could +just discern them against the sky; they passed over the ridge and she +went indoors. In the evening a friend called to see Mrs Caffyn, and +Clara went to the stone bridge which she had visited on Saturday. +The water on the upper side of the bridge was dammed up and fell over +the little sluice gates under the arches into a clear and deep basin +about forty or fifty feet in diameter. The river, for some reason of +its own, had bitten into the western bank, and had scooped out a +great piece of it into an island. The main current went round the +island with a shallow, swift ripple, instead of going through the +pool, as it might have done, for there was a clear channel for it. +The centre and the region under the island were deep and still, but +at the farther end, where the river in passing called to the pool, it +broke into waves as it answered the appeal, and added its own +contribution to the stream, which went away down to the mill and +onwards to the big Thames. On the island were aspens and alders. +The floods had loosened the roots of the largest tree, and it hung +over heavily in the direction in which it had yielded to the rush of +the torrent, but it still held its grip, and the sap had not forsaken +a single branch. Every one was as dense with foliage as if there had +been no struggle for life, and the leaves sang their sweet song, just +perceptible for a moment every now and then in the variations of the +louder music below them. It is curious that the sound of a weir is +never uniform, but is perpetually changing in the ear even of a +person who stands close by it. One of the arches of the bridge was +dry, and Clara went down into it, stood at the edge and watched that +wonderful sight--the plunge of a smooth, pure stream into the great +cup which it has hollowed out for itself. Down it went, with a +dancing, foamy fringe playing round it just where it met the surface; +a dozen yards away it rose again, bubbling and exultant. + +She came up from the arch and went home as the sun was setting. She +found Mrs Caffyn alone. + +'I have news to tell you,' she said. 'Baruch Cohen is in love with +my sister, and she is in love with him.' + +'The Lord, Miss Clara! I thought sometimes that perhaps it might be +you; but there, it's better, maybe, as it is, for--' + +'For what?' + +'Why, my dear, because somebody's sure to turn up who'll make you +happy, but there aren't many men like Baruch. You see what I mean, +don't you? He's always a-reading books, and, therefore, he don't +think so much of what some people would make a fuss about. Not as +anything of that kind would ever stop me, if I were a man and saw +such a woman as Miss Madge. He's really as good a creature as ever +was born, and with that child she might have found it hard to get +along, and now it will be cared for, and so will she be to the end of +their lives.' + +The evening after their return to Great Ormond Street, Mazzini was +surprised by a visit from Clara alone. + +'When I last saw you,' she said, 'you told us that you had been +helped by women. I offer myself.' + +'But, my dear madam, you hardly know what the qualifications are. To +begin with, there must be a knowledge of three foreign languages, +French, German and Italian, and the capacity and will to endure great +privation, suffering and, perhaps, death.' + +'I was educated abroad, I can speak German and French. I do not know +much Italian, but when I reach Italy I will soon learn.' + +'Pardon me for asking you what may appear a rude question. Is it a +personal disappointment which sends you to me, or love for the cause? +It is not uncommon to find that young women, when earthly love is +impossible, attempt to satisfy their cravings with a love for that +which is impersonal.' + +'Does it make any difference, so far as their constancy is +concerned?' + +'I cannot say that it does. The devotion of many of the martyrs of +the Catholic church was repulsion from the world as much as +attraction to heaven. You must understand that I am not prompted by +curiosity. If you are to be my friend, it is necessary that I should +know you thoroughly.' + +'My motive is perfectly pure.' + +They had some further talk and parted. After a few more interviews, +Clara and another English lady started for Italy. Madge had letters +from her sister at intervals for eighteen months, the last being from +Venice. Then they ceased, and shortly afterwards Mazzini told Baruch +that his sister-in-law was dead. + +All efforts to obtain more information from Mazzini were in vain, but +one day when her name was mentioned, he said to Madge, - + +'The theologians represent the Crucifixion as the most sublime fact +in the world's history. It was sublime, but let us reverence also +the Eternal Christ who is for ever being crucified for our +salvation.' + +'Father,' said a younger Clara to Baruch some ten years later as she +sat on his knee, 'I had an Aunt Clara once, hadn't I?' + +'Yes, my child.' + +'Didn't she go to Italy and die there?' + +'Yes.' + +'Why did she go?' + +'Because she wanted to free the poor people of Italy who were +slaves.' + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CLARA HOPGOOD *** + +This file should be named chpg10.txt or chpg10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, chpg11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, chpg10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/chpg10.zip b/old/chpg10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..345f676 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/chpg10.zip diff --git a/old/chpg10h.htm b/old/chpg10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd24b92 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/chpg10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4965 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Clara Hopgood</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Clara Hopgood, by Mark Rutherford</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clara Hopgood, by Mark Rutherford +(#3 in our series by Mark Rutherford) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Clara Hopgood + +Author: Mark Rutherford + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5986] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1907 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>CLARA HOPGOOD</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>About ten miles north-east of Eastthorpe lies the town of Fenmarket, +very like Eastthorpe generally; and as we are already familiar with +Eastthorpe, a particular description of Fenmarket is unnecessary. +There is, however, one marked difference between them. Eastthorpe, +it will be remembered, is on the border between the low uplands and +the Fens, and has one side open to soft, swelling hills. Fenmarket +is entirely in the Fens, and all the roads that lead out of it are alike +level, monotonous, straight, and flanked by deep and stagnant ditches. +The river, also, here is broader and slower; more reluctant than it +is even at Eastthorpe to hasten its journey to the inevitable sea. +During the greater part of the year the visitor to Fenmarket would perhaps +find it dull and depressing, and at times, under a grey, wintry sky, +almost unendurable; but nevertheless, for days and weeks it has a charm +possessed by few other landscapes in England, provided only that behind +the eye which looks there is something to which a landscape of that +peculiar character answers. There is, for example, the wide, dome-like +expanse of the sky, there is the distance, there is the freedom and +there are the stars on a clear night. The orderly, geometrical +march of the constellations from the extreme eastern horizon across +the meridian and down to the west has a solemn majesty, which is only +partially discernible when their course is interrupted by broken country.</p> +<p>On a dark afternoon in November 1844, two young women, Clara and +Madge Hopgood, were playing chess in the back parlour of their mother’s +house at Fenmarket, just before tea. Clara, the elder, was about +five-and-twenty, fair, with rather light hair worn flat at the side +of her face, after the fashion of that time. Her features were +tolerably regular. It is true they were somewhat marred by an +uneven nasal outline, but this was redeemed by the curved lips of a +mouth which was small and rather compressed, and by a definite, symmetrical +and graceful figure. Her eyes were grey, with a curious peculiarity +in them. Ordinarily they were steady, strong eyes, excellent and +renowned optical instruments. Over and over again she had detected, +along the stretch of the Eastthorpe road, approaching visitors, and +had named them when her companions could see nothing but specks. +Occasionally, however, these steady, strong, grey eyes utterly changed. +They were the same eyes, the same colour, but they ceased to be mere +optical instruments and became instruments of expression, transmissive +of radiance to such a degree that the light which was reflected from +them seemed insufficient to account for it. It was also curious +that this change, though it must have been accompanied by some emotion, +was just as often not attended by any other sign of it. Clara +was, in fact, little given to any display of feeling.</p> +<p>Madge, four years younger than her sister, was of a different type +altogether, and one more easily comprehended. She had very heavy +dark hair, and she had blue eyes, a combination which fascinated Fenmarket. +Fenmarket admired Madge more than it was admired by her in return, and +she kept herself very much to herself, notwithstanding what it considered +to be its temptations. If she went shopping she nearly always +went with her sister; she stood aloof from all the small gaieties of +the town; walked swiftly through its streets, and repelled, frigidly +and decisively, all offers, and they were not a few, which had been +made to her by the sons of the Fenmarket tradesfolk. Fenmarket +pronounced her ‘stuck-up,’ and having thus labelled her, +considered it had exhausted her. The very important question, +Whether there was anything which naturally stuck up? Fenmarket +never asked. It was a great relief to that provincial little town +in 1844, in this and in other cases, to find a word which released it +from further mental effort and put out of sight any troublesome, straggling, +indefinable qualities which it would otherwise have been forced to examine +and name. Madge was certainly stuck-up, but the projection above +those around her was not artificial. Both she and her sister found +the ways of Fenmarket were not to their taste. The reason lay +partly in their nature and partly in their history.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood was the widow of the late manager in the Fenmarket branch +of the bank of Rumbold, Martin & Rumbold, and when her husband died +she had of course to leave the Bank Buildings. As her income was +somewhat straitened, she was obliged to take a small house, and she +was now living next door to the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ the +principal inn in the town. There was then no fringe of villas +to Fenmarket for retired quality; the private houses and shops were +all mixed together, and Mrs Hopgood’s cottage was squeezed in +between the ironmonger’s and the inn. It was very much lower +than either of its big neighbours, but it had a brass knocker and a +bell, and distinctly asserted and maintained a kind of aristocratic +superiority.</p> +<p>Mr Hopgood was not a Fenmarket man. He came straight from London +to be manager. He was in the bank of the London agents of Rumbold, +Martin & Rumbold, and had been strongly recommended by the city +firm as just the person to take charge of a branch which needed thorough +reorganisation. He succeeded, and nobody in Fenmarket was more +respected. He lived, however, a life apart from his neighbours, +excepting so far as business was concerned. He went to church +once on Sunday because the bank expected him to go, but only once, and +had nothing to do with any of its dependent institutions. He was +a great botanist, very fond of walking, and in the evening, when Fenmarket +generally gathered itself into groups for gossip, either in the street +or in back parlours, or in the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ Mr Hopgood, +tall, lean and stately, might be seen wandering along the solitary roads +searching for flowers, which, in that part of the world, were rather +scarce. He was also a great reader of the best books, English, +German and French, and held high doctrine, very high for those days, +on the training of girls, maintaining that they need, even more than +boys, exact discipline and knowledge. Boys, he thought, find health +in an occupation; but an uncultivated, unmarried girl dwells with her +own untutored thoughts, which often breed disease. His two daughters, +therefore, received an education much above that which was usual amongst +people in their position, and each of them - an unheard of wonder in +Fenmarket - had spent some time in a school in Weimar. Mr Hopgood +was also peculiar in his way of dealing with his children. He +talked to them and made them talk to him, and whatever they read was +translated into speech; thought, in his house, was vocal.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood, too, had been the intimate friend of her husband, and +was the intimate friend of her daughters. She was now nearly sixty, +but still erect and graceful, and everybody could see that the picture +of a beautiful girl of one-and-twenty, which hung opposite the fireplace, +had once been her portrait. She had been brought up, as thoroughly +as a woman could be brought up, in those days, to be a governess. +The war prevented her education abroad, but her father, who was a clergyman, +not too rich, engaged a French emigrant lady to live in his house to +teach her French and other accomplishments. She consequently spoke +French perfectly, and she could also read and speak Spanish fairly well, +for the French lady had spent some years in Spain. Mr Hopgood +had never been particularly in earnest about religion, but his wife +was a believer, neither High Church nor Low Church, but inclined towards +a kind of quietism not uncommon in the Church of England, even during +its bad time, a reaction against the formalism which generally prevailed. +When she married, Mrs Hopgood did not altogether follow her husband. +She never separated herself from her faith, and never would have confessed +that she had separated herself from her church. But although she +knew that his creed externally was not hers, her own was not sharply +cut, and she persuaded herself that, in substance, his and her belief +were identical. As she grew older her relationship to the Unseen +became more and more intimate, but she was less and less inclined to +criticise her husband’s freedom, or to impose on the children +a rule which they would certainly have observed, but only for her sake. +Every now and then she felt a little lonely; when, for example, she +read one or two books which were particularly her own; when she thought +of her dead father and mother, and when she prayed her solitary prayer. +Mr Hopgood took great pains never to disturb that sacred moment. +Indeed, he never for an instant permitted a finger to be laid upon what +she considered precious. He loved her because she had the strength +to be what she was when he first knew her and she had so fascinated +him. He would have been disappointed if the mistress of his youth +had become some other person, although the change, in a sense, might +have been development and progress. He did really love her piety, +too, for its own sake. It mixed something with her behaviour to +him and to the children which charmed him, and he did not know from +what other existing source anything comparable to it could be supplied. +Mrs Hopgood seldom went to church. The church, to be sure, was +horribly dead, but she did not give that as a reason. She had, +she said, an infirmity, a strange restlessness which prevented her from +sitting still for an hour. She often pleaded this excuse, and +her husband and daughters never, by word or smile, gave her the least +reason to suppose that they did not believe her.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Both Clara and Madge went first to an English day-school, and Clara +went straight from this school to Germany, but Madge’s course +was a little different. She was not very well, and it was decided +that she should have at least a twelvemonth in a boarding-school at +Brighton before going abroad. It had been very highly recommended, +but the head-mistress was Low Church and aggressive. Mr Hopgood, +far away from the High and Low Church controversy, came to the conclusion +that, in Madge’s case, the theology would have no effect on her. +It was quite impossible, moreover, to find a school which would be just +what he could wish it to be. Madge, accordingly, was sent to Brighton, +and was introduced into a new world. She was just beginning to +ask herself <i>why</i> certain things were right and other things were +wrong, and the Brighton answer was that the former were directed by +revelation and the latter forbidden, and that the ‘body’ +was an affliction to the soul, a means of ‘probation,’ our +principal duty being to ‘war’ against it.</p> +<p>Madge’s bedroom companion was a Miss Selina Fish, daughter +of Barnabas Fish, Esquire, of Clapham, and merchant of the City of London. +Miss Fish was not traitorous at heart, but when she found out that Madge +had not been christened, she was so overcome that she was obliged to +tell her mother. Miss Fish was really unhappy, and one cold night, +when Madge crept into her neighbour’s bed, contrary to law, but +in accordance with custom when the weather was very bitter, poor Miss +Fish shrank from her, half-believing that something dreadful might happen +if she should by any chance touch unbaptised, naked flesh. Mrs +Fish told her daughter that perhaps Miss Hopgood might be a Dissenter, +and that although Dissenters were to be pitied, and even to be condemned, +many of them were undoubtedly among the redeemed, as for example, that +man of God, Dr Doddridge, whose <i>Family Expositor</i> was read systematically +at home, as Selina knew. Then there were Matthew Henry, whose +commentary her father preferred to any other, and the venerable saint, +the Reverend William Jay of Bath, whom she was proud to call her friend. +Miss Fish, therefore, made further inquiries gently and delicately, +but she found to her horror that Madge had neither been sprinkled nor +immersed! Perhaps she was a Jewess or a heathen! This was +a happy thought, for then she might be converted. Selina knew +what interest her mother took in missions to heathens and Jews; and +if Madge, by the humble instrumentality of a child, could be brought +to the foot of the Cross, what would her mother and father say? +What would they not say? Fancy taking Madge to Clapham in a nice +white dress - it should be white, thought Selina - and presenting her +as a saved lamb!</p> +<p>The very next night she began, -</p> +<p>‘I suppose your father is a foreigner?’</p> +<p>‘No, he is an Englishman.’</p> +<p>‘But if he is an Englishman you must have been baptised, or +sprinkled, or immersed, and your father and mother must belong to church +or chapel. I know there are thousands of wicked people who belong +to neither, but they are drunkards and liars and robbers, and even they +have their children christened.’</p> +<p>‘Well, he is an Englishman,’ said Madge, smiling.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps,’ said Selina, timidly, ‘he may be - he +may be - Jewish. Mamma and papa pray for the Jews every morning. +They are not like other unbelievers.’</p> +<p>‘No, he is certainly not a Jew.’</p> +<p>‘What is he, then?’</p> +<p>‘He is my papa and a very honest, good man.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, my dear Madge! honesty is a broken reed. I have +heard mamma say that she is more hopeful of thieves than honest people +who think they are saved by works, for the thief who was crucified went +to heaven, and if he had been only an honest man he never would have +found the Saviour and would have gone to hell. Your father must +be something.’</p> +<p>‘I can only tell you again that he is honest and good.’</p> +<p>Selina was confounded. She had heard of those people who were +<i>nothing</i>, and had always considered them as so dreadful that she +could not bear to think of them. The efforts of her father and +mother did not extend to them; they were beyond the reach of the preacher +- mere vessels of wrath. If Madge had confessed herself Roman +Catholic, or idolator, Selina knew how to begin. She would have +pointed out to the Catholic how unscriptural it was to suppose that +anybody could forgive sins excepting God, and she would at once have +been able to bring the idolator to his knees by exposing the absurdity +of worshipping bits of wood and stone; but with a person who was nothing +she could not tell what to do. She was puzzled to understand what +right Madge had to her name. Who had any authority to say she +was to be called Madge Hopgood? She determined at last to pray +to God and again ask her mother’s help.</p> +<p>She did pray earnestly that very night, and had not finished until +long after Madge had said her Lord’s Prayer. This was always +said night and morning, both by Madge and Clara. They had been +taught it by their mother. It was, by the way, one of poor Selina’s +troubles that Madge said nothing but the Lord’s Prayer when she +lay down and when she rose; of course, the Lord’s Prayer was the +best - how could it be otherwise, seeing that our Lord used it? - but +those who supplemented it with no petitions of their own were set down +as formalists, and it was always suspected that they had not received +the true enlightenment from above. Selina cried to God till the +counterpane was wet with her tears, but it was the answer from her mother +which came first, telling her that however praiseworthy her intentions +might be, argument with such a <i>dangerous</i> infidel as Madge would +be most perilous, and she was to desist from it at once. Mrs Fish +had by that post written to Miss Pratt, the schoolmistress, and Selina +no doubt would not be exposed to further temptation. Mrs Fish’s +letter to Miss Pratt was very strong, and did not mince matters. +She informed Miss Pratt that a wolf was in her fold, and that if the +creature were not promptly expelled, Selina must be removed into safety. +Miss Pratt was astonished, and instantly, as her custom was, sought +the advice of her sister, Miss Hannah Pratt, who had charge of the wardrobes +and household matters generally. Miss Hannah Pratt was never in +the best of tempers, and just now was a little worse than usual. +It was one of the rules of the school that no tradesmen’s daughters +should be admitted, but it was very difficult to draw the line, and +when drawn, the Misses Pratt were obliged to admit it was rather ridiculous. +There was much debate over an application by an auctioneer. He +was clearly not a tradesman, but he sold chairs, tables and pigs, and, +as Miss Hannah said, used vulgar language in recommending them. +However, his wife had money; they lived in a pleasant house in Lewes, +and the line went outside him. But when a druggist, with a shop +in Bond Street, proposed his daughter, Miss Hannah took a firm stand. +What is the use of a principle, she inquired severely, if we do not +adhere to it? On the other hand, the druggist’s daughter +was the eldest of six, who might all come when they were old enough +to leave home, and Miss Pratt thought there was a real difference between +a druggist and, say, a bootmaker.</p> +<p>‘Bootmaker!’ said Miss Hannah with great scorn. +‘I am surprised that you venture to hint the remotest possibility +of such a contingency.’</p> +<p>At last it was settled that the line should also be drawn outside +the druggist. Miss Hannah, however, had her revenge. A tanner +in Bermondsey with a house in Bedford Square, had sent two of his children +to Miss Pratt’s seminary. Their mother found out that they +had struck up a friendship with a young person whose father compounded +prescriptions for her, and when she next visited Brighton she called +on Miss Pratt, reminded her that it was understood that her pupils would +‘all be taken from a superior class in society,’ and gently +hinted that she could not allow Bedford Square to be contaminated by +Bond Street. Miss Pratt was most apologetic, enlarged upon the +druggist’s respectability, and more particularly upon his well-known +piety and upon his generous contributions to the cause of religion. +This, indeed, was what decided her to make an exception in his favour, +and the piety also of his daughter was ‘most exemplary.’ +However, the tanner’s lady, although a shining light in the church +herself, was not satisfied that a retail saint could produce a proper +companion for her own offspring, and went away leaving Miss Pratt very +uncomfortable.</p> +<p>‘I warned you,’ said Miss Hannah; ‘I told you what +would happen, and as to Mr Hopgood, I suspected him from the first. +Besides, he is only a banker’s clerk.’</p> +<p>‘Well, what is to be done?’</p> +<p>‘Put your foot down at once.’ Miss Hannah suited +the action to the word, and put down, with emphasis, on the hearthrug +a very large, plate-shaped foot cased in a black felt shoe.</p> +<p>‘But I cannot dismiss them. Don’t you think it +will be better, first of all, to talk to Miss Hopgood? Perhaps +we could do her some good.’</p> +<p>‘Good! Now, do you think we can do any good to an atheist? +Besides, we have to consider our reputation. Whatever good we +might do, it would be believed that the infection remained.’</p> +<p>‘We have no excuse for dismissing the other.’</p> +<p>‘Excuse! none is needed, nor would any be justifiable. +Excuses are immoral. Say at once - of course politely and with +regret - that the school is established on a certain basis. It +will be an advantage to us if it is known why these girls do not remain. +I will dictate the letter, if you like.’</p> +<p>Miss Hannah Pratt had not received the education which had been given +to her younger sister, and therefore, was nominally subordinate, but +really she was chief. She considered it especially her duty not +only to look after the children’s clothes, the servants and the +accounts, but to maintain <i>tone</i> everywhere in the establishment, +and to stiffen her sister when necessary, and preserve in proper sharpness +her orthodoxy, both in theology and morals.</p> +<p>Accordingly, both the girls left, and both knew the reason for leaving. +The druggist’s faith was sorely tried. If Miss Pratt’s +had been a worldly seminary he would have thought nothing of such behaviour, +but he did not expect it from one of the faithful. The next Sunday +morning after he received the news, he stayed at home out of his turn +to make up any medicines which might be urgently required, and sent +his assistant to church.</p> +<p>As to Madge, she enjoyed her expulsion as a great joke, and her Brighton +experiences were the cause of much laughter. She had learned a +good deal while she was away from home, not precisely what it was intended +she should learn, and she came back with a strong, insurgent tendency, +which was even more noticeable when she returned from Germany. +Neither of the sisters lived at the school in Weimar, but at the house +of a lady who had been recommended to Mrs Hopgood, and by this lady +they were introduced to the great German classics. She herself +was an enthusiast for Goethe, whom she well remembered in his old age, +and Clara and Madge, each of them in turn, learned to know the poet +as they would never have known him in England. Even the town taught +them much about him, for in many ways it was expressive of him and seemed +as if it had shaped itself for him. It was a delightful time for +them. They enjoyed the society and constant mental stimulus; they +loved the beautiful park; not a separate enclosure walled round like +an English park, but suffering the streets to end in it, and in summer +time there were excursions into the Thüringer Wald, generally to +some point memorable in history, or for some literary association. +The drawback was the contrast, when they went home, with Fenmarket, +with its dulness and its complete isolation from the intellectual world. +At Weimar, in the evening, they could see Egmont or hear Fidelio, or +talk with friends about the last utterance upon the Leben Jesu; but +the Fenmarket Egmont was a travelling wax-work show, its Fidelio psalm +tunes, or at best some of Bishop’s glees, performed by a few of +the tradesfolk, who had never had an hour’s instruction in music; +and for theological criticism there were the parish church and Ram Lane +Chapel. They did their best; they read their old favourites and +subscribed for a German as well as an English literary weekly newspaper, +but at times they were almost beaten. Madge more than Clara was +liable to depression.</p> +<p>No Fenmarket maiden, other than the Hopgoods, was supposed to have +any connection whatever, or to have any capacity for any connection +with anything outside the world in which ‘young ladies’ +dwelt, and if a Fenmarket girl read a book, a rare occurrence, for there +were no circulating libraries there in those days, she never permitted +herself to say anything more than that it was ‘nice,’ or +it was ‘not nice,’ or she ‘liked it’ or did +‘not like it;’ and if she had ventured to say more, Fenmarket +would have thought her odd, not to say a little improper. The +Hopgood young women were almost entirely isolated, for the tradesfolk +felt themselves uncomfortable and inferior in every way in their presence, +and they were ineligible for rectory and brewery society, not only because +their father was merely a manager, but because of their strange ways. +Mrs Tubbs, the brewer’s wife, thought they were due to Germany. +From what she knew of Germany she considered it most injudicious, and +even morally wrong, to send girls there. She once made the acquaintance +of a German lady at an hotel at Tunbridge Wells, and was quite shocked. +She could see quite plainly that the standard of female delicacy must +be much lower in that country than in England. Mr Tubbs was sure +Mrs Hopgood must have been French, and said to his daughters, mysteriously, +‘you never can tell who Frenchwomen are.’</p> +<p>‘But, papa,’ said Miss Tubbs, ‘you know Mrs Hopgood’s +maiden name; we found that out. It was Molyneux.’</p> +<p>‘Of course, my dear, of course; but if she was a Frenchwoman +resident in England she would prefer to assume an English name, that +is to say if she wished to be married.’</p> +<p>Occasionally the Miss Hopgoods were encountered, and they confounded +Fenmarket sorely. On one memorable occasion there was a party +at the Rectory: it was the annual party into which were swept all the +unclassifiable odds-and-ends which could not be put into the two gatherings +which included the aristocracy and the democracy of the place. +Miss Clara Hopgood amazed everybody by ‘beginning talk,’ +by asking Mrs Greatorex, her hostess, who had been far away to Sidmouth +for a holiday, whether she had been to the place where Coleridge was +born, and when the parson’s wife said she had not, and that she +could not be expected to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of an infidel, +Miss Hopgood expressed her surprise, and declared she would walk twenty +miles any day to see Ottery St Mary. Still worse, when somebody +observed that an Anti-Corn-Law lecturer was coming to Fenmarket, and +the parson’s daughter cried ‘How horrid!’ Miss +Hopgood talked again, and actually told the parson that, so far as she +had read upon the subject - fancy her reading about the Corn-Laws! - +the argument was all one way, and that after Colonel Thompson nothing +new could really be urged.</p> +<p>‘What is so - ’ she was about to say ‘objectionable,’ +but she recollected her official position and that she was bound to +be politic - ‘so odd and unusual,’ observed Mrs Greatorex +to Mrs Tubbs afterwards, ‘is not that Miss Hopgood should have +radical views. Mrs Barker, I know, is a radical like her husband, +but then she never puts herself forward, nor makes speeches. I +never saw anything quite like it, except once in London at a dinner-party. +Lady Montgomery then went on in much the same way, but she was a baronet’s +wife; the baronet was in Parliament; she received a good deal and was +obliged to entertain her guests.’</p> +<p>Poor Clara! she was really very unobtrusive and very modest, but +there had been constant sympathy between her and her father, not the +dumb sympathy as between man and dog, but that which can manifest itself +in human fashion.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Clara and her father were both chess-players, and at the time at +which our history begins, Clara had been teaching Madge the game for +about six months.</p> +<p>‘Check!’ said Clara.</p> +<p>‘Check! after about a dozen moves. It is of no use to +go on; you always beat me. I should not mind that if I were any +better now than when I started. It is not in me.’</p> +<p>‘The reason is that you do not look two moves ahead. +You never say to yourself, “Suppose I move there, what is she +likely to do, and what can I do afterwards?”’</p> +<p>‘That is just what is impossible to me. I cannot hold +myself down; the moment I go beyond the next move my thoughts fly away, +and I am in a muddle, and my head turns round. I was not born +for it. I can do what is under my nose well enough, but nothing +more.’</p> +<p>‘The planning and the forecasting are the soul of the game. +I should like to be a general, and play against armies and calculate +the consequences of manœuvres.’</p> +<p>‘It would kill me. I should prefer the fighting. +Besides, calculation is useless, for when I think that you will be sure +to move such and such a piece, you generally do not.’</p> +<p>‘Then what makes the difference between the good and the bad +player?’</p> +<p>‘It is a gift, an instinct, I suppose.’</p> +<p>‘Which is as much as to say that you give it up. You +are very fond of that word instinct; I wish you would not use it.’</p> +<p>‘I have heard you use it, and say you instinctively like this +person or that.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly; I do not deny that sometimes I am drawn to a person +or repelled from him before I can say why; but I always force myself +to discover afterwards the cause of my attraction or repulsion, and +I believe it is a duty to do so. If we neglect it we are little +better than the brutes, and may grossly deceive ourselves.’</p> +<p>At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Madge jumped up, +nearly over-setting the board, and rushed into the front room. +It was the four-horse coach from London, which, once a day, passed through +Fenmarket on its road to Lincoln. It was not the direct route +from London to Lincoln, but the <i>Defiance</i> went this way to accommodate +Fenmarket and other small towns. It slackened speed in order to +change horses at the ‘Crown and Sceptre,’ and as Madge stood +at the window, a gentleman on the box-seat looked at her intently as +he passed. In another minute he had descended, and was welcomed +by the landlord, who stood on the pavement. Clara meanwhile had +taken up a book, but before she had read a page, her sister skipped +into the parlour again, humming a tune.</p> +<p>‘Let me see - check, you said, but it is not mate.’</p> +<p>She put her elbows on the table, rested her head between her hands, +and appeared to contemplate the game profoundly.</p> +<p>‘Now, then, what do you say to that?’</p> +<p>It was really a very lucky move, and Clara, whose thoughts perhaps +were elsewhere, was presently most unaccountably defeated. Madge +was triumphant.</p> +<p>‘Where are all your deep-laid schemes? Baffled by a poor +creature who can hardly put two and two together.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps your schemes were better than mine.’</p> +<p>‘You know they were not. I saw the queen ought to take +that bishop, and never bothered myself as to what would follow. +Have you not lost your faith in schemes?’</p> +<p>‘You are very much mistaken if you suppose that, because of +one failure, or of twenty failures, I would give up a principle.’</p> +<p>‘Clara, you are a strange creature. Don’t let us +talk any more about chess.’</p> +<p>Madge swept all the pieces with her hand into the box, shut it, closed +the board, and put her feet on the fender.</p> +<p>‘You never believe in impulses or in doing a thing just because +here and now it appears to be the proper thing to do. Suppose +anybody were to make love to you - oh! how I wish somebody would, you +dear girl, for nobody deserves it more - ’ Madge put her +head caressingly on Clara’s shoulder and then raised it again. +‘Suppose, I say, anybody were to make love to you, would you hold +off for six months and consider, and consider, and ask yourself whether +he had such and such virtues, and whether he could make you happy? +Would not that stifle love altogether? Would you not rather obey +your first impression and, if you felt you loved him, would you not +say “Yes”?’</p> +<p>‘Time is not everything. A man who is prompt and is therefore +thought to be hasty by sluggish creatures who are never half awake, +may in five minutes spend more time in consideration than his critics +will spend in as many weeks. I have never had the chance, and +am not likely to have it. I can only say that if it were to come +to me, I should try to use the whole strength of my soul. Precisely +because the question would be so important, would it be necessary to +employ every faculty I have in order to decide it. I do not believe +in oracles which are supposed to prove their divinity by giving no reasons +for their commands.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, well, <i>I</i> believe in Shakespeare. His lovers +fall in love at first sight.’</p> +<p>‘No doubt they do, but to justify yourself you have to suppose +that you are a Juliet and your friend a Romeo. They may, for aught +I know, be examples in my favour. However, I have to lay down +a rule for my own poor, limited self, and, to speak the truth, I am +afraid that great men often do harm by imposing on us that which is +serviceable to themselves only; or, to put it perhaps more correctly, +we mistake the real nature of their processes, just as a person who +is unskilled in arithmetic would mistake the processes of anybody who +is very quick at it, and would be led away by them. Shakespeare +is much to me, but the more he is to me, the more careful I ought to +be to discover what is the true law of my own nature, more important +to me after all than Shakespeare’s.’</p> +<p>‘Exactly. I know what the law of mine is. If a +man were to present himself to me, I should rely on that instinct you +so much despise, and I am certain that the balancing, see-saw method +would be fatal. It would disclose a host of reasons against any +conclusion, and I should never come to any.’</p> +<p>Clara smiled. Although this impetuosity was foreign to her, +she loved it for the good which accompanied it.</p> +<p>‘You do not mean to say you would accept or reject him at once?’</p> +<p>‘No, certainly not. What I mean is that in a few days, +perhaps in a shorter time, something within me would tell me whether +we were suited to one another, although we might not have talked upon +half-a-dozen subjects.’</p> +<p>‘I think the risk tremendous.’</p> +<p>‘But there is just as much risk the other way. You would +examine your friend, catalogue him, sum up his beliefs, note his behaviour +under various experimental trials, and miserably fail, after all your +scientific investigation, to ascertain just the one important point +whether you loved him and could live with him. Your reason was +not meant for that kind of work. If a woman trusts in such matters +to the faculty by which, when she wishes to settle whether she is to +take this house or that, she puts the advantages of the larger back +kitchen on one side and the bigger front kitchen on the other, I pity +her.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood at this moment came downstairs and asked when in the +name of fortune they meant to have the tea ready.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Frank Palmer, the gentleman whom we saw descend from the coach, was +the eldest son of a wholesale and manufacturing chemist in London. +He was now about five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a +partner, he had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for +his firm. The elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, something +more than a Whig in politics, and an enthusiastic member of the Broad +Church party, which was then becoming a power in the country. +He was well-to-do, living in a fine old red-brick house at Stoke Newington, +with half-a-dozen acres of ground round it, and, if Frank had been born +thirty years later, he would probably have gone to Cambridge or Oxford. +In those days, however, it was not the custom to send boys to the Universities +unless they were intended for the law, divinity or idleness, and Frank’s +training, which was begun at St Paul’s school, was completed there. +He lived at home, going to school in the morning and returning in the +evening. He was surrounded by every influence which was pure and +noble. Mr Maurice and Mr Sterling were his father’s guests, +and hence it may be inferred that there was an altar in the house, and +that the sacred flame burnt thereon. Mr Palmer almost worshipped +Mr Maurice, and his admiration was not blind, for Maurice connected +the Bible with what was rational in his friend. ‘What! still +believable: no need then to pitch it overboard: here after all is the +Eternal Word!’ It can be imagined how those who dared not +close their eyes to the light, and yet clung to that book which had +been so much to their forefathers and themselves, rejoiced when they +were able to declare that it belonged to them more than to those who +misjudged them and could deny that they were heretics. The boy’s +education was entirely classical and athletic, and as he was quick at +learning and loved his games, he took a high position amongst his school-fellows. +He was not particularly reflective, but he was generous and courageous, +perfectly straightforward, a fair specimen of thousands of English public-school +boys. As he grew up, he somewhat disappointed his father by a +lack of any real interest in the subjects in which his father was interested. +He accepted willingly, and even enthusiastically, the household conclusions +on religion and politics, but they were not properly his, for he accepted +them merely as conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often +even a little annoying to hear him express some free opinion on religious +questions in a way which showed that it was not a growth but something +picked up. Mr Palmer, senior, sometimes recoiled into intolerance +and orthodoxy, and bewildered his son who, to use one of his own phrases, +‘hardly knew where his father was.’ Partly the reaction +was due to the oscillation which accompanies serious and independent +thought, but mainly it was caused by Mr Palmer’s discontent with +Frank’s appropriation of a sentiment or doctrine of which he was +not the lawful owner. Frank, however, was so hearty, so affectionate, +and so cheerful, that it was impossible not to love him dearly.</p> +<p>In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for the +‘Crown and Sceptre’ was his headquarters, and Madge was +well enough aware that she had been noticed. He had inquired casually +who it was who lived next door, and when the waiter told him the name, +and that Mr Hopgood was formerly the bank manager, Frank remembered +that he had often heard his father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in +a bank in London, as one of his best friends. He did not fail +to ask his father about this friend, and to obtain an introduction to +the widow. He had now brought it to Fenmarket, and within half +an hour after he had alighted, he had presented it.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and the +welcome to Frank was naturally very warm. It was delightful to +connect earlier and happier days with the present, and she was proud +in the possession of a relationship which had lasted so long. +Clara and Madge, too, were both excited and pleased. To say nothing +of Frank’s appearance, of his unsnobbish, deferential behaviour +which showed that he understood who they were and that the little house +made no difference to him, the girls and the mother could not resist +a side glance at Fenmarket and the indulgence of a secret satisfaction +that it would soon hear that the son of Mr Palmer, so well known in +every town round about, was on intimate terms with them.</p> +<p>Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of sympathetic +people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she was often astonished +at the witty things and even the wise things she said in such company, +although, when she was alone, so few things wise or witty occurred to +her. Like all persons who, in conversation, do not so much express +the results of previous conviction obtained in silence as the inspiration +of the moment, Madge dazzled everybody by a brilliancy which would have +been impossible if she had communicated that which had been slowly acquired, +but what she left with those who listened to her, did not always seem, +on reflection, to be so much as it appeared to be while she was talking. +Still she was very charming, and it must be confessed that sometimes +her spontaneity was truer than the limitations of speech more carefully +weighed.</p> +<p>‘What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? How I +wish you would come to London!’</p> +<p>‘I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached to it; +I have very few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the most convincing +reason, I could not afford it. Rent and living are cheaper here +than in town.’</p> +<p>‘Would you not like to live in London, Miss Hopgood?’</p> +<p>Clara hesitated for a few seconds.</p> +<p>‘I am not sure - certainly not by myself. I was in London +once for six months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where +I saw much society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.’</p> +<p>‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted Madge; +‘it is so romantic, so mountainous, so interesting in every way.’</p> +<p>‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. +In London nobody really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense +in which I should use the words. Men and women in London stand +for certain talents, and are valued often very highly for them, but +they are valued merely as representing these talents. Now, if +I had a talent, I should not be satisfied with admiration or respect +because of it. No matter what admiration, or respect, or even +enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were told that my services had been +immense and that life had been changed through my instrumentality, I +should feel the lack of quiet, personal affection, and that, I believe, +is not common in London. If I were famous, I would sacrifice all +the adoration of the world for the love of a brother - if I had one +- or a sister, who perhaps had never heard what it was which had made +me renowned.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the love +of <i>such</i> a sister. But, Mr Palmer, I like London. +I like the people, just the people, although I do not know a soul, and +not a soul cares a brass farthing about me. I am not half so stupid +in London as in the country. I never have a thought of my own +down here. How should I? But in London there is plenty of +talk about all kinds of things, and I find I too have something in me. +It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything particular to anybody, +but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want too much of profound +and eternal attachments. They are rather a burden. They +involve profound and eternal attachment on my part; and I have always +to be at my best; such watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer +a dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble +of laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too +much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were present, +and she therefore interrupted them.</p> +<p>‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country - which do you prefer?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, +and town in the winter.’</p> +<p>This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that +is to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid +reason why he liked being in London in the winter.</p> +<p>‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you +inherit his taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.’</p> +<p>‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St Paul?” +I was at Birmingham when it was first performed in this country. +Oh! it <i>is</i> lovely,’ and he began humming ‘<i>Be thou +faithful unto death</i>.’</p> +<p>Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music +was to be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request +amongst his father’s friends at evening entertainments. +He could also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself +thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often +murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He +had lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, +who was not very proud of his pupil. ‘He is a talent,’ +said the Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad +at a party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere ‘talents’ +Frank failed in his songs to give them just what is of most value - +just that which separates an artistic performance from the vast region +of well-meaning, respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There +was a curious lack in him also of correspondence between his music and +the rest of himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed +that something which it serves to express would always lie behind it; +but this was not the case with him, although he was so attractive and +delightful in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love +for Beethoven was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not +that of which the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. +He went into raptures over the slow movement in the <i>C minor</i> Symphony, +but no <i>C minor</i> slow movement was discernible in his character.</p> +<p>‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” which +can be put to music?’ said Madge. ‘Fancy a chapter +in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a duet!’</p> +<p>‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ said +her mother.</p> +<p>‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that some +of the settings by your divinity, Handel, are absurd. “<i>For +as in Adam all die</i>” may be true enough, and the harmonies +are magnificent, but I am always tempted to laugh when I hear it.’</p> +<p>Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘<i>Be not afraid</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs Hopgood.</p> +<p>‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the little +piano and sang the song through.</p> +<p>‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said Madge, +‘so far as the coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but +I do not care much for oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained +outside the Bible, and the main reason for selecting the Bible is that +what is called religious music may be provided for good people. +An oratorio, to me, is never quite natural. Jewish history is +not a musical subject, and, besides, you cannot have proper love songs +in an oratorio, and in them music is at its best.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s extravagance, +but she was, nevertheless, a little uncomfortable.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and +he struck the first two bars of ‘<i>Adelaide</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go on,’ +but Frank could not quite finish it.</p> +<p>She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, lay +and listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration in Mr Palmer’s +voice not perceptible during his vision of the crown of life and of +fidelity to death.</p> +<p>‘Are you going to stay over Sunday?’ inquired Mrs Hopgood.</p> +<p>‘I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday evening. +My father likes me to be at home on that day.’</p> +<p>‘Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes, a great friend.’</p> +<p>‘He is not High Church nor Low Church?’</p> +<p>‘No, not exactly.’</p> +<p>‘What is he, then? What does he believe?’</p> +<p>‘Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will +be burnt in a brimstone lake for ever.’</p> +<p>‘That is what he does not believe,’ interposed Clara.</p> +<p>‘He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans +who acted up to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. +I think that is glorious, don’t you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. +What is there in him which is positive? What has he distinctly +won from the unknown?’</p> +<p>‘Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful. +I do admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.’</p> +<p>‘If you do not go home on Saturday,’ said Mrs Hopgood, +‘we shall be pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; +we generally go for a walk in the afternoon.’</p> +<p>Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. +Her hair was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. +It grew rather low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her +temples, a mystery of shadow and dark recess. If it had been electrical +with the force of a strong battery and had touched him, he could not +have been more completely paralysed, and his half-erect resolution to +go back on Saturday was instantly laid flat.</p> +<p>‘Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,’ looking at Madge and meeting +her eyes, ‘I think it very likely I shall stay, and if I do I +will most certainly accept your kind invitation.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Sunday morning came, and Frank, being in the country, considered +himself absolved from the duty of going to church, and went for a long +stroll. At half-past one he presented himself at Mrs Hopgood’s +house.</p> +<p>‘I have had a letter from London,’ said Clara to Frank, +‘telling me a most extraordinary story, and I should like to know +what you think of it. A man, who was left a widower, had an only +child, a lovely daughter of about fourteen years old, in whose existence +his own was completely wrapped up. She was subject at times to +curious fits of self-absorption or absence of mind, and while she was +under their influence she resembled a somnambulist rather than a sane +human being awake. Her father would not take her to a physician, +for he dreaded lest he should be advised to send her away from home, +and he also feared the effect which any recognition of her disorder +might have upon her. He believed that in obscure and half-mental +diseases like hers, it was prudent to suppress all notice of them, and +that if he behaved to her as if she were perfectly well, she would stand +a chance of recovery. Moreover, the child was visibly improving, +and it was probable that the disturbance in her health would be speedily +outgrown. One hot day he went out shopping with her, and he observed +that she was tired and strange in her manner, although she was not ill, +or, at least, not so ill as he had often before seen her. The +few purchases they had to make at the draper’s were completed, +and they went out into the street. He took her hand-bag, and, +in doing so, it opened and he saw to his horror a white silk pocket-handkerchief +crumpled up in it, which he instantly recognised as one which had been +shown him five minutes before, but he had not bought. The next +moment a hand was on his shoulder. It was that of an assistant, +who requested that they would both return for a few minutes. As +they walked the half dozen steps back, the father’s resolution +was taken. “I am sixty,” he thought to himself, “and +she is fourteen.” They went into the counting-house and +he confessed that he had taken the handkerchief, but that it was taken +by mistake and that he was about to restore it when he was arrested. +The poor girl was now herself again, but her mind was an entire blank +as to what she had done, and she could not doubt her father’s +statement, for it was a man’s handkerchief and the bag was in +his hands. The draper was inexorable, and as he had suffered much +from petty thefts of late, had determined to make an example of the +first offender whom he could catch. The father was accordingly +prosecuted, convicted and sentenced to imprisonment. When his +term had expired, his daughter, who, I am glad to say, never for an +instant lost her faith in him, went away with him to a distant part +of the country, where they lived under an assumed name. About +ten years afterwards he died and kept his secret to the last; but he +had seen the complete recovery and happy marriage of his child. +It was remarkable that it never occurred to her that she might have +been guilty, but her father’s confession, as already stated, was +apparently so sincere that she could do nothing but believe him. +You will wonder how the facts were discovered. After his death +a sealed paper disclosing them was found, with the inscription, “<i>Not +to be opened during my daughter’s life, and if she should have +children or a husband who may survive her, it is to be burnt</i>.” +She had no children, and when she died as an old woman, her husband +also being dead, the seal was broken.’</p> +<p>‘Probably,’ said Madge, ‘nobody except his daughter +believed he was not a thief. For her sake he endured the imputation +of common larceny, and was content to leave the world with only a remote +chance that he would ever be justified.’</p> +<p>‘I wonder,’ said Frank, ‘that he did not admit +that it was his daughter who had taken the handkerchief, and excuse +her on the ground of her ailment.’</p> +<p>‘He could not do that,’ replied Madge. ‘The +object of his life was to make as little of the ailment as possible. +What would have been the effect on her if she had been made aware of +its fearful consequences? Furthermore, would he have been believed? +And then - awful thought, the child might have suspected him of attempting +to shield himself at her expense! Do you think you could be capable +of such sacrifice, Mr Palmer?’</p> +<p>Frank hesitated. ‘It would - ’</p> +<p>‘The question is not fair, Madge,’ said Mrs Hopgood, +interrupting him. ‘You are asking for a decision when all +the materials to make up a decision are not present. It is wrong +to question ourselves in cold blood as to what we should do in a great +strait; for the emergency brings the insight and the power necessary +to deal with it. I often fear lest, if such-and-such a trial were +to befall me, I should miserably fail. So I should, furnished +as I now am, but not as I should be under stress of the trial.’</p> +<p>‘What is the use,’ said Clara, ‘of speculating +whether we can, or cannot, do this or that? It <i>is</i> now an +interesting subject for discussion whether the lie was a sin.’</p> +<p>‘No,’ said Madge, ‘a thousand times no.’</p> +<p>‘Brief and decisive. Well, Mr Palmer, what do you say?’</p> +<p>‘That is rather an awkward question. A lie is a lie.’</p> +<p>‘But not,’ broke in Madge, vehemently, ‘to save +anybody whom you love. Is a contemptible little two-foot measuring-tape +to be applied to such an action as that?’</p> +<p>‘The consequences of such a philosophy, though, my dear,’ +said Mrs Hopgood, ‘are rather serious. The moment you dispense +with a fixed standard, you cannot refuse permission to other people +to dispense with it also.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, yes, I know all about that, but I am not going to give +up my instinct for the sake of a rule. Do what you feel to be +right, and let the rule go hang. Somebody, cleverer in logic than +we are, will come along afterwards and find a higher rule which we have +obeyed, and will formulate it concisely.’</p> +<p>‘As for my poor self,’ said Clara, ‘I do not profess +to know, without the rule, what is right and what is not. We are +always trying to transcend the rule by some special pleading, and often +in virtue of some fancied superiority. Generally speaking, the +attempt is fatal.’</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘your dogmatic decision +may have been interesting, but it prevented the expression of Mr Palmer’s +opinion.’</p> +<p>Madge bent forward and politely inclined her head to the embarrassed +Frank.</p> +<p>‘I do not know what to say. I have never thought much +about such matters. Is not what they call casuistry a science +among Roman Catholics? If I were in a difficulty and could not +tell right from wrong, I should turn Catholic, and come to you as my +priest, Mrs Hopgood.’</p> +<p>‘Then you would do, not what you thought right yourself, but +what I thought right. The worth of the right to you is that it +is your right, and that you arrive at it in your own way. Besides, +you might not have time to consult anybody. Were you never compelled +to settle promptly a case of this kind?’</p> +<p>‘I remember once at school, when the mathematical master was +out of the class-room, a boy named Carpenter ran up to the blackboard +and wrote “Carrots” on it. That was the master’s +nickname, for he was red-haired. Scarcely was the word finished, +when Carpenter heard him coming along the passage. There was just +time partially to rub out some of the big letters, but CAR remained, +and Carpenter was standing at the board when “Carrots” came +in. He was an excitable man, and he knew very well what the boys +called him.</p> +<p>‘“What have you been writing on the board, sir?”</p> +<p>‘“Carpenter, sir.”</p> +<p>‘The master examined the board. The upper half of the +second R was plainly perceptible, but it might possibly have been a +P. He turned round, looked steadily at Carpenter for a moment, +and then looked at us. Carpenter was no favourite, but not a soul +spoke.</p> +<p>‘“Go to your place, sir.”</p> +<p>‘Carpenter went to his place, the letters were erased and the +lesson was resumed. I was greatly perplexed; I had acquiesced +in a cowardly falsehood. Carrots was a great friend of mine, and +I could not bear to feel that he was humbugged, so when we were outside +I went up to Carpenter and told him he was an infernal sneak, and we +had a desperate fight, and I licked him, and blacked both his eyes. +I did not know what else to do.’</p> +<p>The company laughed.</p> +<p>‘We cannot,’ said Madge, ‘all of us come to terms +after this fashion with our consciences, but we have had enough of these +discussions on morality. Let us go out.’</p> +<p>They went out, and, as some relief from the straight road, they turned +into a field as they came home, and walked along a footpath which crossed +the broad, deep ditches by planks. They were within about fifty +yards of the last and broadest ditch, more a dyke than a ditch, when +Frank, turning round, saw an ox which they had not noticed, galloping +after them.</p> +<p>‘Go on, go on,’ he cried, ‘make for the plank.’</p> +<p>He discerned in an instant that unless the course of the animal could +be checked it would overtake them before the bridge could be reached. +The women fled, but Frank remained. He was in the habit of carrying +a heavy walking-stick, the end of which he had hollowed out in his schooldays +and had filled up with lead. Just as the ox came upon him, it +laid its head to the ground, and Frank, springing aside, dealt it a +tremendous, two-handed blow on the forehead with his knobbed weapon. +The creature was dazed, it stopped and staggered, and in another instant +Frank was across the bridge in safety. There was a little hysterical +sobbing, but it was soon over.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Mr Palmer,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘what presence +of mind and what courage! We should have been killed without you.’</p> +<p>‘The feat is not original, Mrs Hopgood. I saw it done +by a tough little farmer last summer on a bull that was really mad. +There was no ditch for him though, poor fellow, and he had to jump a +hedge.’</p> +<p>‘You did not find it difficult,’ said Madge, ‘to +settle your problem when it came to you in the shape of a wild ox.’</p> +<p>‘Because there was nothing to settle,’ said Frank, laughing; +‘there was only one thing to be done.’</p> +<p>‘So you believed, or rather, so you saw,’ said Clara. +‘I should have seen half-a-dozen things at once - that is to say, +nothing.’</p> +<p>‘And I,’ said Madge, ‘should have settled it the +wrong way: I am sure I should, even if I had been a man. I should +have bolted.’</p> +<p>Frank stayed to tea, and the evening was musical. He left about +ten, but just as the door had shut he remembered he had forgotten his +stick. He gave a gentle rap and Madge appeared. She gave +him his stick.</p> +<p>‘Good-bye again. Thanks for my life.’</p> +<p>Frank cursed himself that he could not find the proper word. +He knew there was something which might be said and ought to be said, +but he could not say it. Madge held out her hand to him, he raised +it to his lips and kissed it, and then, astonished at his boldness, +he instantly retreated. He went to the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ +and was soon in bed, but not to sleep. Strange, that the moment +we lie down in the dark, images, which were half obscured, should become +so intensely luminous! Madge hovered before Frank with almost +tangible distinctness, and he felt his fingers moving in her heavy, +voluptuous tresses. Her picture at last became almost painful +to him and shamed him, so that he turned over from side to side to avoid +it. He had never been thrown into the society of women of his +own age, for he had no sister, and a fire was kindled within him which +burnt with a heat all the greater because his life had been so pure. +At last he fell asleep and did not wake till late in the morning. +He had just time to eat his breakfast, pay one more business visit in +the town, and catch the coach due at eleven o’clock from Lincoln +to London. As the horses were being changed, he walked as near +as he dared venture to the windows of the cottage next door, but he +could see nobody. When the coach, however, began to move, he turned +round and looked behind him, and a hand was waved to him. He took +off his hat, and in five minutes he was clear of the town. It +was in sight a long way, but when, at last, it disappeared, a cloud +of wretchedness swept over him as the vapour sweeps up from the sea. +What was she doing? talking to other people, existing for others, laughing +with others! There were miles between himself and Fenmarket. +Life! what was life? A few moments of living and long, dreary +gaps between. All this, however, is a vain attempt to delineate +what was shapeless. It was an intolerable, unvanquishable oppression. +This was Love; this was the blessing which the god with the ruddy wings +had bestowed on him. It was a relief to him when the coach rattled +through Islington, and in a few minutes had landed him at the ‘Angel.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There was to be a grand entertainment in the assembly room of the +‘Crown and Sceptre’ in aid of the County Hospital. +Mrs Martin, widow of one of the late partners in the bank, lived in +a large house near Fenmarket, and still had an interest in the business. +She was distinctly above anybody who lived in the town, and she knew +how to show her superiority by venturing sometimes to do what her urban +neighbours could not possibly do. She had been known to carry +through the street a quart bottle of horse physic although it was wrapped +up in nothing but brown paper. On her way she met the brewer’s +wife, who was more aggrieved than she was when Mrs Martin’s carriage +swept past her in the dusty, narrow lane which led to the Hall. +Mrs Martin could also afford to recognise in a measure the claims of +education and talent. A gentleman came from London to lecture +in the town, and showed astonished Fenmarket an orrery and a magic lantern +with dissolving views of the Holy Land. The exhibition had been +provided in order to extinguish a debt incurred in repairing the church, +but the rector’s wife, and the brewer’s wife, after consultation, +decided that they must leave the lecturer to return to his inn. +Mrs Martin, however, invited him to supper. Of course she knew +Mr Hopgood well, and knew that he was no ordinary man. She knew +also something of Mrs Hopgood and the daughters, and that they were +no ordinary women. She had been heard to say that they were ladies, +and that Mr Hopgood was a gentleman; and she kept up a distant kind +of intimacy with them, always nodded to them whenever she met them, +and every now and then sent them grapes and flowers. She had observed +once or twice to Mrs Tubbs that Mr Hopgood was a remarkable person, +who was quite scientific and therefore did not associate with the rest +of the Fenmarket folk; and Mrs Tubbs was much annoyed, particularly +by a slight emphasis which she thought she detected in the ‘therefore,’ +for Mr Tubbs had told her that one of the smaller London brewers, who +had only about fifty public-houses, had refused to meet at dinner a +learned French chemist who had written books. Mrs Martin could +not make friends with the Hopgoods, nor enter the cottage. It +would have been a transgression of that infinitely fine and tortuous +line whose inexplicable convolutions mark off what is forbidden to a +society lady. Clearly, however, the Hopgoods could be requested +to co-operate at the ‘Crown and Sceptre;’ in fact, it would +be impolitic not to put some of the townsfolk on the list of patrons. +So it came about that Mrs Hopgood was included, and that she was made +responsible for the provision of one song and one recitation. +For the song it was settled that Frank Palmer should be asked, as he +would be in Fenmarket. Usually he came but once every half year, +but he had not been able, so he said, to finish all his work the last +time. The recitation Madge undertook.</p> +<p>The evening arrived, the room was crowded and a dozen private carriages +stood in the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ courtyard. Frank +called for the Hopgoods. Mrs Hopgood and Clara sat with presentation +tickets in the second row, amongst the fashionable folk; Frank and Madge +were upon the platform. Frank was loudly applauded in ‘<i>Il +Mio Tesoro</i>,’ but the loudest applause of the evening was reserved +for Madge, who declaimed Byron’s ‘<i>Destruction of Sennacherib</i>’ +with much energy. She certainly looked very charming in her red +gown, harmonising with her black hair. The men in the audience +were vociferous for something more, and would not be contented until +she again came forward. The truth is, that the wily young woman +had prepared herself beforehand for possibilities, but she artfully +concealed her preparation. Looking on the ground and hesitating, +she suddenly raised her head as if she had just remembered something, +and then repeated Sir Henry Wotton’s ‘<i>Happy Life</i>.’ +She was again greeted with cheers, subdued so as to be in accordance +with the character of the poem, but none the less sincere, and in the +midst of them she gracefully bowed and retired. Mrs Martin complimented +her warmly at the end of the performance, and inwardly debated whether +Madge could be asked to enliven one of the parties at the Hall, and +how it could, at the same time, be made clear to the guests that she +and her mother, who must come with her, were not even acquaintances, +properly so called, but were patronised as persons of merit living in +the town which the Hall protected. Mrs Martin was obliged to be +very careful. She certainly was on the list at the Lord Lieutenant’s, +but she was in the outer ring, and she was not asked to those small +and select little dinners which were given to Sir Egerton, the Dean +of Peterborough, Lord Francis, and his brother, the county member. +She decided, however, that she could make perfectly plain the conditions +upon which the Hopgoods would be present, and the next day she sent +Madge a little note asking her if she would ‘assist in some festivities’ +at the Hall in about two months’ time, which were to be given +in celebration of the twenty-first birthday of Mrs Martin’s third +son. The scene from the ‘<i>Tempest</i>,’ where Ferdinand +and Miranda are discovered playing chess, was suggested, and it was +proposed that Madge should be Miranda, and Mr Palmer Ferdinand. +Mrs Martin concluded with a hope that Mrs Hopgood and her eldest daughter +would ‘witness the performance.’</p> +<p>Frank joyously consented, for amateur theatricals had always attracted +him, and in a few short weeks he was again at Fenmarket. He was +obliged to be there for three or four days before the entertainment, +in order to attend the rehearsals, which Mrs Martin had put under the +control of a professional gentleman from London, and Madge and he were +consequently compelled to make frequent journeys to the Hall.</p> +<p>At last the eventful night arrived, and a carriage was hired next +door to take the party. They drove up to the grand entrance and +were met by a footman, who directed Madge and Frank to their dressing-rooms, +and escorted Mrs Hopgood and Clara to their places in the theatre. +They had gone early in order to accommodate Frank and Madge, and they +found themselves alone. They were surprised that there was nobody +to welcome them, and a little more surprised when they found that the +places allotted to them were rather in the rear. Presently two +or three fiddlers were seen, who began to tune their instruments. +Then some Fenmarket folk and some of the well-to-do tenants on the estate +made their appearance, and took seats on either side of Mrs Hopgood +and Clara. Quite at the back were the servants. At five +minutes to eight the band struck up the overture to ‘<i>Zampa</i>,’ +and in the midst of it in sailed Mrs Martin and a score or two of fashionably-dressed +people, male and female. The curtain ascended and Prospero’s +cell was seen. Alonso and his companions were properly grouped, +and Prospero began, -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> ‘Behold, Sir King,<br />The wronged Duke +of Milan, Prospero.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The audience applauded him vigorously when he came to the end of +his speech, but there was an instantaneous cry of ‘hush!’ +when Prospero disclosed the lovers. It was really very pretty. +Miranda wore a loose, simple, white robe, and her wonderful hair was +partly twisted into a knot, and partly strayed down to her waist. +The dialogue between the two was spoken with much dramatic feeling, +and when Ferdinand came to the lines -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> ‘Sir, she is mortal,<br />But by immortal +Providence she’s mine,’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>old Boston, a worthy and wealthy farmer, who sat next to Mrs Hopgood, +cried out ‘hear, hear!’ but was instantly suppressed.</p> +<p>He put his head down behind the people in front of him, rubbed his +knees, grinned, and then turned to Mrs Hopgood, whom he knew, and whispered, +with his hand to his mouth, -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘And a precious lucky chap he is.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Mrs Hopgood watched intently, and when Gonzalo invoked the gods to +drop a blessed crown on the couple, and the applause was renewed, and +Boston again cried ‘hear, hear!’ without fear of check, +she did not applaud, for something told her that behind this stage show +a drama was being played of far more serious importance.</p> +<p>The curtain fell, but there were loud calls for the performers. +It rose, and they presented themselves, Alonso still holding the hands +of the happy pair. The cheering now was vociferous, more particularly +when a wreath was flung at the feet of the young princess, and Ferdinand, +stooping, placed it on her head.</p> +<p>Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the +audience were treated to ‘something light,’ and roared with +laughter at a pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled +a young booby who was staying there, pitched him overboard; ‘wondered +what he meant;’ sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits, +and finished with a <i>pas-seul.</i></p> +<p>The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper, +and the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the morning. +On their way back, Clara broke out against the juxtaposition of Shakespeare +and such vulgarity.</p> +<p>‘Much better,’ she said, ‘to have left the Shakespeare +out altogether. The lesson of the sequence is that each is good +in its way, a perfectly hateful doctrine to me.</p> +<p>Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially +Frank, who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very temperate +allowance.</p> +<p>‘But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must +not be too severe upon her.’</p> +<p>There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; the +word ‘tastes,’ for example, as if the difference between +Miranda and the chambermaid were a matter of ‘taste.’ +She was annoyed too with Frank’s easy, cheery tones for she felt +deeply what she said, and his mitigation and smiling latitudinarianism +were more exasperating than direct opposition.</p> +<p>‘I am sure,’ continued Frank, ‘that if we were +to take the votes of the audience, Miranda would be the queen of the +evening;’ and he put the crown which he had brought away with +him on her head again.</p> +<p>Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door of +their house. It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping out of +the carriage in a hurry, threw a shawl over her head, forgetting the +wreath. It fell into the gutter and was splashed with mud. +Frank picked it up, wiped it as well as he could with his pocket-handkerchief, +took it into the parlour and laid it on a chair.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The next morning it still rained, a cold rain from the north-east, +a very disagreeable type of weather on the Fenmarket flats. Madge +was not awake until late, and when she caught sight of the grey sky +and saw her finery tumbled on the floor - no further use for it in any +shape save as rags - and the dirty crown, which she had brought upstairs, +lying on the heap, the leaves already fading, she felt depressed and +miserable. The breakfast was dull, and for the most part all three +were silent. Mrs Hopgood and Clara went away to begin their housework, +leaving Madge alone.</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ cried Mrs Hopgood, ‘what am I to do with +this thing? It is of no use to preserve it; it is dead and covered +with dirt.’</p> +<p>‘Throw it down here.’</p> +<p>She took it and rammed it into the fire. At that moment she +saw Frank pass. He was evidently about to knock, but she ran to +the door and opened it.</p> +<p>‘I did not wish to keep you waiting in the wet.’</p> +<p>‘I am just off but I could not help calling to see how you +are. What! burning your laurels, the testimony to your triumph?’</p> +<p>‘Triumph! rather transitory; finishes in smoke,’ and +she pushed two or three of the unburnt leaves amongst the ashes and +covered them over. He stooped down, picked up a leaf, smoothed +it between his fingers, and then raised his eyes. They met hers +at that instant, as she lifted them and looked in his face. They +were near one another, and his hands strayed towards hers till they +touched. She did not withdraw; he clasped the hand, she not resisting; +in another moment his arms were round her, his face was on hers, and +he was swept into self-forgetfulness. Suddenly the horn of the +coach about to start awoke him, and he murmured the line from one of +his speeches of the night before -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘But by immortal Providence she’s mine.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>She released herself a trifle, held her head back as if she desired +to survey him apart from her, so that the ecstasy of union might be +renewed, and then fell on his neck.</p> +<p>The horn once more sounded, she let him out silently, and he was +off. Mrs Hopgood and Clara presently came downstairs.</p> +<p>‘Mr Palmer came in to bid you good-bye, but he heard the coach +and was obliged to rush away.’</p> +<p>‘What a pity,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘that you did +not call us.’</p> +<p>‘I thought he would be able to stay longer.’</p> +<p>The lines which followed Frank’s quotation came into her head, +-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘Sweet lord, you play me false.’<br /> ‘No, +my dearest love,<br /> I would not for the world.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘An omen,’ she said to herself; ‘“he would +not for the world.”’</p> +<p>She was in the best of spirits all day long. When the housework +was over and they were quiet together, she said, -</p> +<p>‘Now, my dear mother and sister, I want to know how the performance +pleased you.’</p> +<p>‘It was as good as it could be,’ replied her mother, +‘but I cannot think why all plays should turn upon lovemaking. +I wonder whether the time will ever come when we shall care for a play +in which there is no courtship.’</p> +<p>‘What a horrible heresy, mother,’ said Madge.</p> +<p>‘It may be so; it may be that I am growing old, but it seems +astonishing to me sometimes that the world does not grow a little weary +of endless variations on the same theme.’</p> +<p>‘Never,’ said Madge, ‘as long as it does not weary +of the thing itself, and it is not likely to do that. Fancy a +young man and a young woman stopping short and exclaiming, “This +is just what every son of Adam and daughter of Eve has gone through +before; why should we proceed?” Besides, it is the one emotion +common to the whole world; we can all comprehend it. Once more, +it reveals character. In <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Othello</i>, for +example, what is interesting is not solely the bare love. The +natures of Hamlet and Othello are brought to light through it as they +would not have been through any other stimulus. I am sure that +no ordinary woman ever shows what she really is, except when she is +in love. Can you tell what she is from what she calls her religion, +or from her friends, or even from her husband?’</p> +<p>‘Would it not be equally just to say women are more alike in +love than in anything else? Mind, I do not say alike, but more +alike. Is it not the passion which levels us all?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, mother, mother! did one ever hear such dreadful blasphemy? +That the loves, for example, of two such cultivated, exquisite creatures +as Clara and myself would be nothing different from those of the barmaids +next door?’</p> +<p>‘Well, at anyrate, I do not want to see <i>my</i> children +in love to understand what they are - to me at least.’</p> +<p>‘Then, if you comprehend us so completely - and let us have +no more philosophy - just tell me, should I make a good actress? +Oh! to be able to sway a thousand human beings into tears or laughter! +It must be divine.’</p> +<p>‘No, I do not think you would,’ replied Clara.</p> +<p>‘Why not, miss?<i> Your</i> opinion, mind, was not asked. +Did I not act to perfection last night?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Then why are you so decisive?’</p> +<p>‘Try a different part some day. I may be mistaken.’</p> +<p>‘You are very oracular.’</p> +<p>She turned to the piano, played a few chords, closed the instrument, +swung herself round on the music stool, and said she should go for a +walk.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was Mr Palmer’s design to send Frank abroad as soon as he +understood the home trade. It was thought it would be an advantage +to him to learn something of foreign manufacturing processes. +Frank had gladly agreed to go, but he was now rather in the mood for +delay. Mr Palmer conjectured a reason for it, and the conjecture +was confirmed when, after two or three more visits to Fenmarket, perfectly +causeless, so far as business was concerned, Frank asked for the paternal +sanction to his engagement with Madge. Consent was willingly given, +for Mr Palmer knew the family well; letters passed between him and Mrs +Hopgood, and it was arranged that Frank’s visit to Germany should +be postponed till the summer. He was now frequently at Fenmarket +as Madge’s accepted suitor, and, as the spring advanced, their +evenings were mostly spent by themselves out of doors. One afternoon +they went for a long walk, and on their return they rested by a stile. +Those were the days when Tennyson was beginning to stir the hearts of +the young people in England, and the two little green volumes had just +become a treasure in the Hopgood household. Mr Palmer, senior, +knew them well, and Frank, hearing his father speak so enthusiastically +about them, thought Madge would like them, and had presented them to +her. He had heard one or two read aloud at home, and had looked +at one or two himself, but had gone no further. Madge, her mother, +and her sister had read and re-read them.</p> +<p>‘Oh,’ said Madge, ‘for that Vale in Ida. +Here in these fens how I long for something that is not level! +Oh, for the roar of -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine<br />In +cataract after cataract to the sea.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Go on with it, Frank.’</p> +<p>‘I cannot.’</p> +<p>‘But you know <i>Œnone</i>?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say I do. I began it - ’</p> +<p>‘Frank, how could you begin it and lay it down unfinished? +Besides, those lines are some of the first; you <i>must</i> remember +-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Behind the valley topmost Gargarus<br />Stands up and takes +the morning.”’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘No, I do not recollect, but I will learn them; learn them +for your sake.’</p> +<p>‘I do not want you to learn them for my sake.’</p> +<p>‘But I shall.’</p> +<p>She had taken off her hat and his hand strayed to her neck. +Her head fell on his shoulder and she had forgotten his ignorance of +<i>Œnone</i>. Presently she awoke from her delicious trance +and they moved homewards in silence. Frank was a little uneasy.</p> +<p>‘I do greatly admire Tennyson,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘What do you admire? You have hardly looked at him.’</p> +<p>‘I saw a very good review of him. I will look that review +up, by the way, before I come down again. Mr Maurice was talking +about it.’</p> +<p>Madge had a desire to say something, but she did not know what to +say, a burden lay upon her chest. It was that weight which presses +there when we are alone with those with whom we are not strangers, but +with whom we are not completely at home, and she actually found herself +impatient and half-desirous of solitude. This must be criminal +or disease, she thought to herself, and she forcibly recalled Frank’s +virtues. She was so far successful that when they parted and he +kissed her, she was more than usually caressing, and her ardent embrace, +at least for the moment, relieved that unpleasant sensation in the region +of the heart. When he had gone she reasoned with herself. +What a miserable counterfeit of love, she argued, is mere intellectual +sympathy, a sympathy based on books! What did Miranda know about +Ferdinand’s ‘views’ on this or that subject? +Love is something independent of ‘views.’ It is an +attraction which has always been held to be inexplicable, but whatever +it may be it is not ‘views.’ She was becoming a little +weary, she thought, of what was called ‘culture.’ +These creatures whom we know through Shakespeare and Goethe are ghostly. +What have we to do with them? It is idle work to read or even +to talk fine things about them. It ends in nothing. What +we really have to go through and that which goes through it are interesting, +but not circumstances and character impossible to us. When Frank +spoke of his business, which he understood, he was wise, and some observations +which he made the other day, on the management of his workpeople, would +have been thought original if they had been printed. The true +artist knows that his hero must be a character shaping events and shaped +by them, and not a babbler about literature. Frank, also, was +so susceptible. He liked to hear her read to him, and her enthusiasm +would soon be his. Moreover, how gifted he was, unconsciously, +with all that makes a man admirable, with courage, with perfect unselfishness! +How handsome he was, and then his passion for her! She had read +something of passion, but she never knew till now what the white intensity +of its flame in a man could be. She was committed, too, happily +committed; it was an engagement.</p> +<p>Thus, whenever doubt obtruded itself, she poured a self-raised tide +over it and concealed it. Alas! it could not be washed away; it +was a little sharp rock based beneath the ocean’s depths, and +when the water ran low its dark point reappeared. She was more +successful, however, than many women would have been, for, although +her interest in ideas was deep, there was fire in her blood, and Frank’s +arm around her made the world well nigh disappear; her surrender was +entire, and if Sinai had thundered in her ears she would not have heard. +She was destitute of that power, which her sister possessed, of surveying +herself from a distance. On the contrary, her emotion enveloped +her, and the safeguard of reflection on it was impossible to her.</p> +<p>As to Frank, no doubt ever approached him. He was intoxicated, +and beside himself. He had been brought up in a clean household, +knowing nothing of the vice by which so many young men are overcome, +and woman hitherto had been a mystery to him. Suddenly he found +himself the possessor of a beautiful creature, whose lips it was lawful +to touch and whose heartbeats he could feel as he pressed her to his +breast. It was permitted him to be alone with her, to sit on the +floor and rest his head on her knees, and he had ventured to capture +one of her slippers and carry it off to London, where he kept it locked +up amongst his treasures. If he had been drawn over Fenmarket +sluice in a winter flood he would not have been more incapable of resistance.</p> +<p>Every now and then Clara thought she discerned in Madge that she +was not entirely content, but the cloud-shadows swept past so rapidly +and were followed by such dazzling sunshine that she was perplexed and +hoped that her sister’s occasional moodiness might be due to parting +and absence, or the anticipation of them. She never ventured to +say anything about Frank to Madge, for there was something in her which +forbade all approach from that side. Once when he had shown his +ignorance of what was so familiar to the Hopgoods, and Clara had expected +some sign of dissatisfaction from her sister, she appeared ostentatiously +to champion him against anticipated criticism. Clara interpreted +the warning and was silent, but, after she had left the room with her +mother in order that the lovers might be alone, she went upstairs and +wept many tears. Ah! it is a sad experience when the nearest and +dearest suspects that we are aware of secret disapproval, knows that +it is justifiable, throws up a rampart and becomes defensively belligerent. +From that moment all confidence is at an end. Without a word, +perhaps, the love and friendship of years disappear, and in the place +of two human beings transparent to each other, there are two who are +opaque and indifferent. Bitter, bitter! If the cause of +separation were definite disagreement upon conduct or belief, we could +pluck up courage, approach and come to an understanding, but it is impossible +to bring to speech anything which is so close to the heart, and there +is, therefore, nothing left for us but to submit and be dumb.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was now far into June, and Madge and Frank extended their walks +and returned later. He had come down to spend his last Sunday +with the Hopgoods before starting with his father for Germany, and on +the Monday they were to leave London.</p> +<p>Wordsworth was one of the divinities at Stoke Newington, and just +before Frank visited Fenmarket that week, he had heard the <i>Intimations +of Immortality</i> read with great fervour. Thinking that Madge +would be pleased with him if she found that he knew something about +that famous Ode, and being really smitten with some of the passages +in it, he learnt it, and just as they were about to turn homewards one +sultry evening he suddenly began to repeat it, and declaimed it to the +end with much rhetorical power.</p> +<p>‘Bravo!’ said Madge, ‘but, of all Wordsworth’s +poems, that is the one for which I believe I care the least.’</p> +<p>Frank’s countenance fell.</p> +<p>‘Oh, me! I thought it was just what would suit you.’</p> +<p>‘No, not particularly. There are some noble lines in +it; for example -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“And custom lie upon thee with a weight,<br />Heavy as frost, +and deep almost as life!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But the very title - <i>Intimations of Immortality from Recollections +of Early Childhood</i> - is unmeaning to me, and as for the verse which +is in everybody’s mouth -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and still worse the vision of “that immortal sea,” and +of the children who “sport upon the shore,” they convey +nothing whatever to me. I find though they are much admired by +the clergy of the better sort, and by certain religiously-disposed people, +to whom thinking is distasteful or impossible. Because they cannot +definitely believe, they fling themselves with all the more fervour +upon these cloudy Wordsworthian phrases, and imagine they see something +solid in the coloured fog.’</p> +<p>It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, +but in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary to his usual +wont, was silent. There was something undiscovered in Madge, a +region which he had not visited and perhaps could not enter. She +discerned in an instant what she had done, and in an instant repented. +He had taken so much pains with a long piece of poetry for her sake: +was not that better than agreement in a set of propositions? Scores +of persons might think as she thought about the ode, who would not spend +a moment in doing anything to gratify her. It was delightful also +to reflect that Frank imagined she would sympathise with anything written +in that temper. She recalled what she herself had said when somebody +gave Clara a copy in ‘Parian’ of a Greek statue, a thing +coarse in outline and vulgar. Clara was about to put it in a cupboard +in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so pathetically that the donor had +in a measure divined what her sister loved, and had done her best, although +she had made a mistake, that finally the statue was placed on the bedroom +mantelpiece. Madge’s heart overflowed, and Frank had never +attracted her so powerfully as at that moment. She took his hand +softly in hers.</p> +<p>‘Frank,’ she murmured, as she bent her head towards him, +‘it is really a lovely poem.’</p> +<p>Suddenly there was a flash of forked lightning at some distance, +followed in a few seconds by a roll of thunder increasing in intensity +until the last reverberation seemed to shake the ground. They +took refuge in a little barn and sat down. Madge, who was timid +and excited in a thunderstorm, closed her eyes to shield herself from +the glare.</p> +<p>The tumult in the heavens lasted for nearly two hours and, when it +was over, Madge and Frank walked homewards without speaking a word for +a good part of the way.</p> +<p>‘I cannot, cannot go to-morrow,’ he suddenly cried, as +they neared the town.</p> +<p>‘You <i>shall</i> go,’ she replied calmly.</p> +<p>‘But, Madge, think of me in Germany, think what my dreams and +thoughts will be - you here - hundreds of miles between us.’</p> +<p>She had never seen him so shaken with terror.</p> +<p>‘You <i>shall</i> go; not another word.’</p> +<p>‘I must say something - what can I say? My God, my God, +have mercy on me!’</p> +<p>‘Mercy! mercy!’ she repeated, half unconsciously, and +then rousing herself, exclaimed, ‘You shall not say it; I will +not hear; now, good-bye.’</p> +<p>They had come to the door; he went inside; she took his face between +her hands, left one kiss on his forehead, led him back to the doorway +and he heard the bolts drawn. When he recovered himself he went +to the ‘Crown and Sceptre’ and tried to write a letter to +her, but the words looked hateful, horrible on the paper, and they were +not the words he wanted. He dared not go near the house the next +morning, but as he passed it on the coach he looked at the windows. +Nobody was to be seen, and that night he left England.</p> +<p>‘Did you hear,’ said Clara to her mother at breakfast, +‘that the lightning struck one of the elms in the avenue at Mrs +Martin’s yesterday evening and splintered it to the ground?’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>In a few days Madge received the following letter:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘FRANKFORT, O. M.,<br />HÔTEL WAIDENBUSCH.</p> +<p>‘My dearest Madge, - I do not know how to write to you. +I have begun a dozen letters but I cannot bring myself to speak of what +lies before me, hiding the whole world from me. Forgiveness! how +is any forgiveness possible? But Madge, my dearest Madge, remember +that my love is intenser than ever. What has happened has bound +you closer to me. I <i>implore</i> you to let me come back. +I will find a thousand excuses for returning, and we will marry. +We had vowed marriage to each other and why should not our vows be fulfilled? +Marriage, marriage <i>at once</i>. You will not, you <i>cannot</i>, +no, you <i>cannot</i>, you must see you cannot refuse. My father +wishes to make this town his headquarters for ten days. Write +by return for mercy’s sake. - Your ever devoted</p> +<p>‘FRANK.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The reply came only a day late.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘My dear Frank, - Forgiveness! Who is to be forgiven? +Not you. You believed you loved me, but I doubted my love, and +I know now that no true love for you exists. We must part, and +part forever. Whatever wrong may have been done, marriage to avoid +disgrace would be a wrong to both of us infinitely greater. I +owe you an expiation; your release is all I can offer, and it is insufficient. +I can only plead that I was deaf and blind. By some miracle, I +cannot tell how, my ears and eyes are opened, and I hear and see. +It is not the first time in my life that the truth has been revealed +to me suddenly, supernaturally, I may say, as if in a vision, and I +know the revelation is authentic. There must be no wavering, no +half-measures, and I absolutely forbid another letter from you. +If one arrives I must, for the sake of my own peace and resolution, +refuse to read it. You have simply to announce to your father +that the engagement is at an end, and give no reasons. - Your faithful +friend</p> +<p>‘MADGE HOPGOOD.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and it was +returned unopened.</p> +<p>For a long time Frank was almost incapable of reflection. He +dwelt on an event which might happen, but which he dared not name; and +if it should happen! Pictures of his father, his home his father’s +friends, Fenmarket, the Hopgood household, passed before him with such +wild rapidity and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if the reins +had dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away to madness.</p> +<p>He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the imagination, +tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise schemes by which, +although he was prohibited from writing to Madge, he might obtain news +of her. Her injunction might not be final. There was but +one hope for him, one possibility of extrication, one necessity - their +marriage. It <i>must</i> be. He dared not think of what +might be the consequences if they did not marry.</p> +<p>Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of +the rupture, but one morning - nearly two months had now passed - Clara +did not appear at breakfast.</p> +<p>‘Clara is not here,’ said Mrs Hopgood; ‘she was +very tired last night, perhaps it is better not to disturb her.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still +sleeps.’</p> +<p>Madge went upstairs, opened her sister’s door noiselessly, +saw that she was not awake, and returned. When breakfast was over +she rose, and after walking up and down the room once or twice, seated +herself in the armchair by her mother’s side. Her mother +drew herself a little nearer, and took Madge’s hand gently in +her own.</p> +<p>‘Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your mother?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? Do +you not think I ought to know something about such an event in the life +of one so close to me?’</p> +<p>‘I broke off the engagement: we were not suited to one another.’</p> +<p>‘I thought as much; I honour you; a thousand times better that +you should separate now than find out your mistake afterwards when it +is irrevocable. Thank God, He has given you such courage! +But you must have suffered - I know you must;’ and she tenderly +kissed her daughter.</p> +<p>‘Oh, mother! mother!’ cried Madge, ‘what is the +worst - at least to - you - the worst that can happen to a woman?’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood did not speak; something presented itself which she refused +to recognise, but she shuddered. Before she could recover herself +Madge broke out again, -</p> +<p>‘It has happened to me; mother, your daughter has wrecked your +peace for ever!’</p> +<p>‘And he has abandoned you?’</p> +<p>‘No, no; I told you it was I who left him.’</p> +<p>It was Mrs Hopgood’s custom, when any evil news was suddenly +communicated to her, to withdraw at once if possible to her own room. +She detached herself from Madge, rose, and, without a word, went upstairs +and locked her door. The struggle was terrible. So much +thought, so much care, such an education, such noble qualities, and +they had not accomplished what ordinary ignorant Fenmarket mothers and +daughters were able to achieve! This fine life, then, was a failure, +and a perfect example of literary and artistic training had gone the +way of the common wenches whose affiliation cases figured in the county +newspaper. She was shaken and bewildered. She was neither +orthodox nor secular. She was too strong to be afraid that what +she disbelieved could be true, and yet a fatal weakness had been disclosed +in what had been set up as its substitute. She could not treat +her child as a sinner who was to be tortured into something like madness +by immitigable punishment, but, on the other hand, she felt that this +sorrow was unlike other sorrows and that it could never be healed. +For some time she was powerless, blown this way and that way by contradictory +storms, and unable to determine herself to any point whatever. +She was not, however, new to the tempest. She had lived and had +survived when she thought she must have gone down. She had learned +the wisdom which the passage through desperate straits can bring. +At last she prayed and in a few minutes a message was whispered to her. +She went into the breakfast-room and seated herself again by Madge. +Neither uttered a word, but Madge fell down before her, and, with a +great cry, buried her face in her mother’s lap. She remained +kneeling for some time waiting for a rebuke, but none came. Presently +she felt smoothing hands on her head and the soft impress of lips. +So was she judged.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was settled that they should leave Fenmarket. Their departure +caused but little surprise. They had scarcely any friends, and +it was always conjectured that people so peculiar would ultimately find +their way to London. They were particularly desirous to conceal +their movements, and therefore determined to warehouse their furniture +in town, to take furnished apartments there for three months, and then +to move elsewhere. Any letters which might arrive at Fenmarket +for them during these three months would be sent to them at their new +address; nothing probably would come afterwards, and as nobody in Fenmarket +would care to take any trouble about them, their trace would become +obliterated. They found some rooms near Myddelton Square, Pentonville, +not a particularly cheerful place, but they wished to avoid a more distant +suburb, and Pentonville was cheap. Fortunately for them they had +no difficulty whatever in getting rid of the Fenmarket house for the +remainder of their term.</p> +<p>For a little while London diverted them after a fashion, but the +absence of household cares told upon them. They had nothing to +do but to read and to take dismal walks through Islington and Barnsbury, +and the gloom of the outlook thickened as the days became shorter and +the smoke began to darken the air. Madge was naturally more oppressed +than the others, not only by reason of her temperament, but because +she was the author of the trouble which had befallen them. Her +mother and Clara did everything to sustain and to cheer her. They +possessed the rare virtue of continuous tenderness. The love, +which with many is an inspiration, was with them their own selves, from +which they could not be separated; a harsh word could not therefore +escape from them. It was as impossible as that there should be +any failure in the pressure with which the rocks press towards the earth’s +centre. Madge at times was very far gone in melancholy. +How different this thing looked when it was close at hand; when she +personally was to be the victim! She had read about it in history, +the surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it had been turned +to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent a charm to innumerable +mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing like the poetry or mythology, +and threatened to ruin her own history altogether. Nor would it +be her own history solely, but more or less that of her mother and sister.</p> +<p>Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have been +concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would have found +her Redeemer and would have been comparatively at peace; she would have +acknowledged herself convicted of infinite sin, and hell would have +been opened before her, but above the sin and the hell she would have +seen the distinct image of the Mediator abolishing both. Popular +theology makes personal salvation of such immense importance that, in +comparison therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to others of +our misdeeds. The sense of cruel injustice to those who loved +her remained with Madge perpetually.</p> +<p>To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; sometimes +her mother and sister went with her; sometimes she insisted on going +alone. One autumn morning, she found herself at Letherhead, the +longest trip she had undertaken, for there were scarcely any railways +then. She wandered about till she discovered a footpath which +took her to a mill-pond, which spread itself out into a little lake. +It was fed by springs which burst up through the ground. She watched +at one particular point, and saw the water boil up with such force that +it cleared a space of a dozen yards in diameter from every weed, and +formed a transparent pool just tinted with that pale azure which is +peculiar to the living fountains which break out from the bottom of +the chalk. She was fascinated for a moment by the spectacle, and +reflected upon it, but she passed on. In about three-quarters +of an hour she found herself near a church, larger than an ordinary +village church, and, as she was tired, and the gate of the church porch +was open, she entered and sat down. The sun streamed in upon her, +and some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the adjoining +open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and looked in her face. +The quiet was complete, and the air so still, that a yellow leaf dropping +here and there from the churchyard elms - just beginning to turn - fell +quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at heart and +despairing, she could not help being touched, and she thought to herself +how strange the world is - so transcendent both in glory and horror; +a world capable of such scenes as those before her, and a world in which +such suffering as hers could be; a world infinite both ways. The +porch gate was open because the organist was about to practise, and +in another instant she was listening to the <i>Kyrie</i> from Beethoven’s +Mass in C. She knew it; Frank had tried to give her some notion +of it on the piano, and since she had been in London she had heard it +at St Mary’s, Moorfields. She broke down and wept, but there +was something new in her sorrow, and it seemed as if a certain Pity +overshadowed her.</p> +<p>She had barely recovered herself when she saw a woman, apparently +about fifty, coming towards her with a wicker basket on her arm. +She sat down beside Madge, put her basket on the ground, and wiped her +face with her apron.</p> +<p>‘Marnin’ miss! its rayther hot walkin’, isn’t +it? I’ve come all the way from Darkin, and I’m goin’ +to Great Oakhurst. That’s a longish step there and back +again; not that this is the nearest way, but I don’t like climbing +them hills, and then when I get to Letherhead I shall have a lift in +a cart.’</p> +<p>Madge felt bound to say something as the sunburnt face looked kind +and motherly.</p> +<p>‘I suppose you live at Great Oakhurst?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. I do: my husband, God bless him! he was a kind +of foreman at The Towers, and when he died I was left alone and didn’t +know what to be at, as both my daughters were out and one married; so +I took the general shop at Great Oakhurst, as Longwood used to have, +but it don’t pay for I ain’t used to it, and the house is +too big for me, and there isn’t nobody proper to mind it when +I goes over to Darkin for anything.’</p> +<p>‘Are you going to leave?’</p> +<p>‘Well, I don’t quite know yet, miss, but I thinks I shall +live with my daughter in London. She’s married a cabinetmaker +in Great Ormond Street: they let lodgings, too. Maybe you know +that part?’</p> +<p>‘No, I do not.’</p> +<p>‘You don’t live in London, then?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I do. I came from London this morning.’</p> +<p>‘The Lord have mercy on us, did you though! I suppose, +then, you’re a-visitin’ here. I know most of the folk +hereabouts.’</p> +<p>‘No: I am going back this afternoon.’</p> +<p>Her interrogator was puzzled and her curiosity stimulated. +Presently she looked in Madge’s face.</p> +<p>‘Ah! my poor dear, you’ll excuse me, I don’t mean +to be forward, but I see you’ve been a-cryin’: there’s +somebody buried here.’</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>That was all she could say. The walk from Letherhead, and the +excitement had been too much for her and she fainted. Mrs Caffyn, +for that was her name, was used to fainting fits. She was often +‘a bit faint’ herself, and she instantly loosened Madge’s +gown, brought out some smelling-salts and also a little bottle of brandy +and water. Something suddenly struck her. She took up Madge’s +hand: there was no wedding ring on it.</p> +<p>Presently her patient recovered herself.</p> +<p>‘Look you now, my dear; you aren’t noways fit to go back +to London to-day. If you was my child you shouldn’t do it +for all the gold in the Indies, no, nor you sha’n’t now. +I shouldn’t have a wink of sleep this night if I let you go, and +if anything were to happen to you it would be me as ’ud have to +answer for it.’</p> +<p>‘But I must go; my mother and sister will not know what has +become of me.’</p> +<p>‘You leave that to me; I tell you again as you can’t +go. I’ve been a mother myself, and I haven’t had children +for nothing. I was just a-goin’ to send a little parcel +up to my daughter by the coach, and her husband’s a-goin’ +to meet it. She’d left something behind last week when she +was with me, and I thought I’d get a bit of fresh butter here +for her and put along with it. They make better butter in the +farm in the bottom there, than they do at Great Oakhurst. A note +inside now will get to your mother all right; you have a bit of something +to eat and drink here, and you’ll be able to walk along of me +just into Letherhead, and then you can ride to Great Oakhurst; it’s +only about two miles, and you can stay there all night.’</p> +<p>Madge was greatly touched; she took Mrs Caffyn’s hands in hers, +pressed them both and consented. She was very weary, and the stamp +on Mrs Caffyn’s countenance was indubitable; it was evidently +no forgery, but of royal mintage. They walked slowly to Letherhead, +and there they found the carrier’s cart, which took them to Great +Oakhurst.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mrs Caffyn’s house was a roomy old cottage near the church, +with a bow-window in which were displayed bottles of ‘suckers,’ +and of Day & Martin’s blacking, cotton stuffs, a bag of nuts +and some mugs, cups and saucers. Inside were salt butter, washing-blue, +drapery, treacle, starch, tea, tobacco and snuff, cheese, matches, bacon, +and a few drugs, such as black draught, magnesia, pills, sulphur, dill-water, +Dalby’s Carminative, and steel-drops. There was also a small +stock of writing-paper, string and tin ware. A boy was behind +the counter. When Mrs Caffyn was out he always asked the customers +who desired any article, the sale of which was in any degree an art, +to call again when she returned. He went as far as those things +which were put up in packets, such as what were called ‘grits’ +for making gruel, and he was also authorised to venture on pennyworths +of liquorice and peppermints, but the sale of half-a-dozen yards of +cotton print was as much above him as the negotiation of a treaty of +peace would be to a messenger in the Foreign Office. In fact, +nobody, excepting children, went into the shop when Mrs Caffyn was not +to be seen there, and, if she had to go to Dorking or Letherhead on +business, she always chose the middle of the day, when the folk were +busy at their homes or in the fields. Poor woman! she was much +tried. Half the people who dealt with her were in her debt, but +she could not press them for her money. During winter-time they +were discharged by the score from their farms, but as they were not +sufficiently philosophic, or sufficiently considerate for their fellows +to hang or drown themselves, they were obliged to consume food, and +to wear clothes, for which they tried to pay by instalments during spring, +summer and autumn. Mrs Caffyn managed to make both ends meet by +the help of two or three pigs, by great economy, and by letting some +of her superfluous rooms. Great Oakhurst was not a show place +nor a Spa, but the Letherhead doctor had once recommended her to a physician +in London, who occasionally sent her a patient who wanted nothing but +rest and fresh air. She also, during the shooting-season, was +often asked to find a bedroom for visitors to The Towers.</p> +<p>She might have done better had she been on thoroughly good terms +with the parson. She attended church on Sunday morning with tolerable +regularity. She never went inside a dissenting chapel, and was +not heretical on any definite theological point, but the rector and +she were not friends. She had lived in Surrey ever since she was +a child, but she was not Surrey born. Both her father and mother +came from the north country, and migrated southwards when she was very +young. They were better educated than the southerners amongst +whom they came; and although their daughter had no schooling beyond +what was obtainable in a Surrey village of that time, she was distinguished +by a certain superiority which she had inherited or acquired from her +parents. She was never subservient to the rector after the fashion +of her neighbours; she never curtsied to him, and if he passed and nodded +she said ‘Marnin’, sir,’ in just the same tone as +that in which she said it to the smallest of the Great Oakhurst farmers. +Her church-going was an official duty incumbent upon her as the proprietor +of the only shop in the parish. She had nothing to do with church +matters except on Sunday, and she even went so far as to neglect to +send for the rector when one of her children lay dying. She was +attacked for the omission, but she defended herself.</p> +<p>‘What was the use when the poor dear was only seven year old? +What call was there for him to come to a blessed innocent like that? +I did tell him to look in when my husband was took, for I know as before +we were married there was something atween him and that gal Sanders. +He never would own up to me about it, and I thought as he might to a +clergyman, and, if he did, it would ease his mind and make it a bit +better for him afterwards; but, Lord! it warn’t no use, for he +went off and we didn’t so much as hear her name, not even when +he was a-wandering. I says to myself when the parson left, “What’s +the good of having you?”’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn was a Christian, but she was a disciple of St James rather +than of St Paul. She believed, of course, the doctrines of the +Catechism, in the sense that she denied none, and would have assented +to all if she had been questioned thereon; but her belief that ‘faith, +if it hath not works, is dead, being alone,’ was something very +vivid and very practical.</p> +<p>Her estimate, too, of the relative values of the virtues and of the +relative sinfulness of sins was original, and the rector therefore told +all his parishioners that she was little better than a heathen. +The common failings in that part of the country amongst the poor were +Saturday-night drunkenness and looseness in the relations between the +young men and young women. Mrs Caffyn’s indignation never +rose to the correct boiling point against these crimes. The rector +once ventured to say, as the case was next door to her, -</p> +<p>‘It is very sad, is it not, Mrs Caffyn, that Polesden should +be so addicted to drink. I hope he did not disturb you last Saturday +night. I have given the constable directions to look after the +street more closely on Saturday evening, and if Polesden again offends +he must be taken up.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn was behind her own counter. She had just served +a customer with two ounces of Dutch cheese, and she sat down on her +stool. Being rather a heavy woman she always sat down when she +was not busy, and she never rose merely to talk.</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is sad, sir, and Polesden isn’t no particular +friend of mine, but I tell you what’s sad too, sir, and that’s +the way them people are mucked up in that cottage. Why, their +living room opens straight on the road, and the wind comes in fit to +blow your head off, and when he goes home o’ nights, there’s +them children a-squalling, and he can’t bide there and do nothing.’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid, though, Mrs Caffyn, there must be something radically +wrong with that family. I suppose you know all about the eldest +daughter?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir, I <i>have</i> heard it: it wouldn’t be Great +Oakhurst if I hadn’t, but p’r’aps, sir, you’ve +never been upstairs in that house, and yet a house it isn’t. +There’s just two sleeping-rooms, that’s all; it’s +shameful, it isn’t decent. Well, that gal, she goes away +to service. Maybe, sir, them premises at the farm are also unbeknown +to you. In the back kitchen there’s a broadish sort of shelf +as Jim climbs into o’ nights, and it has a rail round it to keep +you from a-falling out, and there’s a ladder as they draws up +in the day as goes straight up from that kitchen to the gal’s +bedroom door. It’s downright disgraceful, and I don’t +believe the Lord A’mighty would be marciful to neither of <i>us</i> +if we was tried like that.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn bethought herself of the ‘us’ and was afraid +that even she had gone a little too far; ‘leastways, speaking +for myself, sir,’ she added.</p> +<p>The rector turned rather red, and repented his attempt to enlist +Mrs Caffyn.</p> +<p>‘If the temptations are so great, Mrs Caffyn, that is all the +more reason why those who are liable to them should seek the means which +are provided in order that they may be overcome. I believe the +Polesdens are very lax attendants at church, and I don’t think +they ever communicated.’</p> +<p>Mrs Polesden at that moment came in for an ounce of tea, and as Mrs +Caffyn rose to weigh it, the rector departed with a stiff ‘good-morning,’ +made to do duty for both women.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mrs Caffyn persuaded Madge to go to bed at once, after giving her +‘something to comfort her.’ In the morning her kind +hostess came to her bedside.</p> +<p>‘You’ve got a mother, haven’t you - leastways, +I know you have, because you wrote to her.’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘And she’s fond of you, maybe?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes.’</p> +<p>‘That’s a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back +in the cart to Letherhead, and you’ll catch the Darkin coach to +London.’</p> +<p>‘You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?’</p> +<p>‘Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would +just look as if I’d trapped you here to get something out of you. +Pay! no, not a penny.’</p> +<p>‘I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will +not offer anything. I don’t know how to thank you enough.’</p> +<p>Madge took Mrs Caffyn’s hand in hers and pressed it firmly.</p> +<p>‘Besides, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets +a little, ‘you won’t mind my saying it, I expex you are +in trouble. There’s something on your mind, and I believe +as I knows pretty well what it is.’</p> +<p>Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; +Mrs Caffyn sat between her and the window.</p> +<p>‘Look you here, my dear; don’t you suppose I meant to +say anything to hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed +to you like; I couldn’t help it. I see’d what was +the matter, but I was all the more drawed, and I just wanted you to +know as it makes no difference. That’s like me; sometimes +I’m drawed that way and sometimes t’other way, and it’s +never no use for me to try to go against it. I ain’t a-going +to say anything more to you; God-A’mighty, He’s above us +all; but p’r’aps you may be comm’ this way again some +day, and then you’ll look in.’</p> +<p>Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs Caffyn’s +hand, but was silent.</p> +<p>The next morning, after Madge’s return, Mrs Cork, the landlady, +presented herself at the sitting-room door and ‘wished to speak +with Mrs Hopgood for a minute.’</p> +<p>‘Come in, Mrs Cork.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer as you should come downstairs.’</p> +<p>Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She had +a face of which it was impossible to recollect, when it had been seen +even a dozen times, any feature except the eyes, which were steel-blue, +a little bluer than the faceted head of the steel poker in her parlour, +but just as hard. She lived in the basement with a maid, much +like herself but a little more human. Although the front underground +room was furnished Mrs Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions, +and a kind of apron of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly +all the year. She was a woman of what she called regular habits. +No lodger was ever permitted to transgress her rules, or to have meals +ten minutes before or ten minutes after the appointed time. She +had undoubtedly been married, but who Cork could have been was a marvel. +Why he died, and why there were never any children were no marvels. +At two o’clock her grate was screwed up to the narrowest possible +dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves and cabbage stalks +were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. No meat, by the way, +was ever roasted - it was considered wasteful - everything was baked +or boiled. After half-past four not a bit of anything that was +not cold was allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the first +of April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out the moment +tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very well and Clara +wished to give her mother something warm. She rang the bell and +asked for hot water. Maria came up and disappeared without a word +after receiving the message. Presently she returned.</p> +<p>‘Mrs Cork, miss, wishes me to tell you as it was never understood +as ’ot water would be required after tea, and she hasn’t +got any.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood had a fire, although it was not yet the thirty-first +of October, for it was very damp and raw. She had with much difficulty +induced Mrs Cork to concede this favour (which probably would not have +been granted if the coals had not yielded a profit of threepence a scuttleful), +and Clara, therefore, asked if she could not have the kettle upstairs. +Again Maria disappeared and returned.</p> +<p>‘Mrs Cork says, miss, as it’s very ill-convenient as +the kettle is cleaned up agin to-morrow, and if you can do without it +she will be obliged.’</p> +<p>It was of no use to continue the contest, and Clara bethought herself +of a little ‘Etna’ she had in her bedroom. She went +to the druggist’s, bought some methylated spirit, and obtained +what she wanted.</p> +<p>Mrs Cork had one virtue and one weakness. Her virtue was cleanliness, +but she persecuted the ‘blacks,’ not because she objected +to dirt as dirt, but because it was unauthorised, appeared without permission +at irregular hours, and because the glittering polish on varnished paint +and red mahogany was a pleasure to her. She liked the dirt, too, +in a way, for she enjoyed the exercise of her ill-temper on it and the +pursuit of it to destruction. Her weakness was an enormous tom-cat +which had a bell round its neck and slept in a basket in the kitchen, +the best-behaved and most moral cat in the parish. At half-past +nine every evening it was let out into the back-yard and vanished. +At ten precisely it was heard to mew and was immediately admitted. +Not once in a twelvemonth did that cat prolong its love making after +five minutes to ten.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood went upstairs to her room, Mrs Cork following and closing +the door.</p> +<p>‘If you please, ma’am, I wish to give you notice to leave +this day week.’</p> +<p>‘What is the matter, Mrs Cork?’</p> +<p>‘Well, ma’am, for one thing, I didn’t know as you’d +bring a bird with you.’</p> +<p>It was a pet bird belonging to Madge.</p> +<p>‘But what harm does the bird do? It gives no trouble; +my daughter attends to it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, ma’am, but it worrits my Joseph - the cat, I mean. +I found him the other mornin’ on the table eyin’ it, and +I can’t a-bear to see him urritated.’</p> +<p>‘I should hardly have thought that a reason for parting with +good lodgers.’</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood had intended to move, as before explained, but she did +not wish to go till the three months had expired.</p> +<p>‘I don’t say as that is everything, but if you wish me +to tell you the truth, Miss Madge is not a person as I like to keep +in the house. I wish you to know’ - Mrs Cork suddenly became +excited and venomous - ‘that I’m a respectable woman, and +have always let my apartments to respectable people, and do you think +I should ever let them to respectable people again if it got about as +I had had anybody as wasn’t respectable? Where was she last +night? And do you suppose as me as has been a married woman can’t +see the condition she’s in? I say as you, Mrs Hopgood, ought +to be ashamed of yourself for bringing of such a person into a house +like mine, and you’ll please vacate these premises on the day +named.’ She did not wait for an answer, but banged the door +after her, and went down to her subterranean den.</p> +<p>Mrs Hopgood did not tell her children the true reason for leaving. +She merely said that Mrs Cork had been very impertinent, and that they +must look out for other rooms. Madge instantly recollected Great +Ormond Street, but she did not know the number, and oddly enough she +had completely forgotten Mrs Caffyn’s name. It was a peculiar +name, she had heard it only once, she had not noticed it over the door, +and her exhaustion may have had something to do with her loss of memory. +She could not therefore write, and Mrs Hopgood determined that she herself +would go to Great Oakhurst. She had another reason for her journey. +She wished her kind friend there to see that Madge had really a mother +who cared for her. She was anxious to confirm Madge’s story, +and Mrs Caffyn’s confidence. Clara desired to go also, but +Mrs Hopgood would not leave Madge alone, and the expense of a double +fare was considered unnecessary.</p> +<p>When Mrs Hopgood came to Letherhead on her return, the coach was +full inside, and she was obliged to ride outside, although the weather +was cold and threatening. In about half an hour it began to rain +heavily, and by the time she was in Pentonville she was wet through. +The next morning she ought to have lain in bed, but she came down at +her accustomed hour as Mrs Cork was more than usually disagreeable, +and it was settled that they would leave at once if the rooms in Great +Ormond Street were available. Clara went there directly after +breakfast, and saw Mrs Marshall, who had already received an introductory +letter from her mother.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Marshall family included Marshall and his wife. He was +rather a small man, with blackish hair, small lips, and with a nose +just a little turned up at the tip. As we have been informed, +he was a cabinet-maker. He worked for very good shops, and earned +about two pounds a week. He read books, but he did not know their +value, and often fancied he had made a great discovery on a bookstall +of an author long ago superseded and worthless. He belonged to +a mechanic’s institute, and was fond of animal physiology; heard +courses of lectures on it at the institute, and had studied two or three +elementary handbooks. He found in a second-hand dealer’s +shop a model, which could be taken to pieces, of the inside of the human +body. He had also bought a diagram of a man, showing the circulation, +and this he had hung in his bedroom, his mother-in-law objecting most +strongly on the ground that its effect on his wife was injurious. +He had a notion that the world might be regenerated if men and women +were properly instructed in physiological science, and if before marriage +they would study their own physical peculiarities, and those of their +intended partners. The crossing of peculiarities nevertheless +presented difficulties. A man with long legs surely ought to choose +a woman with short legs, but if a man who was mathematical married a +woman who was mathematical, the result might be a mathematical prodigy. +On the other hand the parents of the prodigy might each have corresponding +qualities, which, mixed with the mathematical tendency, would completely +nullify it. The path of duty therefore was by no means plain. +However, Marshall was sure that great cities dwarfed their inhabitants, +and as he himself was not so tall as his father, and, moreover, suffered +from bad digestion, and had a tendency to ‘run to head,’ +he determined to select as his wife a ‘daughter of the soil,’ +to use his own phrase, above the average height, with a vigorous constitution +and plenty of common sense. She need not be bookish, ‘he +could supply all that himself.’ Accordingly, he married +Sarah Caffyn. His mother and Mrs Caffyn had been early friends. +He was not mistaken in Sarah. She was certainly robust; she was +a shrewd housekeeper, and she never read anything, except now and then +a paragraph or two in the weekly newspaper, notwithstanding (for there +were no children), time hung rather heavily on her hands. One +child had been born, but to Marshall’s surprise and disappointment +it was a poor, rickety thing, and died before it was a twelvemonth old.</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall was not a very happy woman. Marshall was a great +politician and spent many of his evenings away from home at political +meetings. He never informed her what he had been doing, and if +he had told her, she would neither have understood nor cared anything +about it. At Great Oakhurst she heard everything and took an interest +in it, and she often wished with all her heart that the subject which +occupied Marshall’s thoughts was not Chartism but the draining +of that heavy, rush-grown bit of rough pasture that lay at the bottom +of the village. He was very good and kind to her, and she never +imagined, before marriage, that he ought to be more. She was sure +that at Great Oakhurst she would have been quite comfortable with him +but somehow, in London, it was different. ‘I don’t +know how it is,’ she said one day, ‘the sort of husband +as does for the country doesn’t do for London.’</p> +<p>At Great Oakhurst, where the doors were always open into the yard +and the garden, where every house was merely a covered bit of the open +space, where people were always in and out, and women never sat down, +except to their meals, or to do a little stitching or sewing, it was +really not necessary, as Mrs Caffyn observed, that husband and wife +should ‘hit it so fine.’ Mrs Marshall hated all the +conveniences of London. She abominated particularly the taps, +and longed to be obliged in all weathers to go out to the well and wind +up the bucket. She abominated also the dust-bin, for it was a +pleasure to be compelled - so at least she thought it now - to walk +down to the muck-heap and throw on it what the pig could not eat. +Nay, she even missed that corner of the garden against the elder-tree, +where the pig-stye was, for ‘you could smell the elder-flowers +there in the spring-time, and the pig-stye wasn’t as bad as the +stuffy back room in Great Ormond Street when three or four men were +in it.’ She did all she could to spend her energy on her +cooking and cleaning, but ‘there was no satisfaction in it,’ +and she became much depressed, especially after the child died. +This was the main reason why Mrs Caffyn determined to live with her. +Marshall was glad she resolved to come. His wife had her full +share of the common sense he desired, but the experiment had not altogether +succeeded. He knew she was lonely, and he was sorry for her, although +he did not see how he could mend matters. He reflected carefully, +nothing had happened which was a surprise to him, the relationship was +what he had supposed it would be, excepting that the child did not live +and its mother was a little miserable. There was nothing he would +not do for her, but he really had nothing more to offer her.</p> +<p>Although Mrs Marshall had made up her mind that husbands and wives +could not be as contented with one another in the big city as they would +be in a village, a suspicion crossed her mind one day that, even in +London, the relationship might be different from her own. She +was returning from Great Oakhurst after a visit to her mother. +She had stayed there for about a month after her child’s death, +and she travelled back to town with a Letherhead woman, who had married +a journeyman tanner, who formerly worked in the Letherhead tan-yard, +and had now moved to Bermondsey, a horrid hole, worse than Great Ormond +Street. Both Marshall and the tanner were at the ‘Swan with +Two Necks’ to meet the covered van, and the tanner’s wife +jumped out first.</p> +<p>‘Hullo, old gal, here you are,’ cried the tanner, and +clasped her in his brown, bark-stained arms, giving her, nothing loth, +two or three hearty kisses. They were so much excited at meeting +one another, that they forgot their friends, and marched off without +bidding them good-bye. Mrs Marshall was welcomed in quieter fashion.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ she thought to herself. ‘Red Tom,’ +as the tanner was called, ‘is not used to London ways. They +are, perhaps, correct for London, but Marshall might now and then remember +that I have not been brought up to them.’</p> +<p>To return, however, to the Hopgoods. Before the afternoon they +were in their new quarters, happily for them, for Mrs Hopgood became +worse. On the morrow she was seriously ill, inflammation of the +lungs appeared, and in a week she was dead. What Clara and Madge +suffered cannot be told here. Whenever anybody whom we love dies, +we discover that although death is commonplace it is terribly original. +We may have thought about it all our lives, but if it comes close to +us, it is quite a new, strange thing to us, for which we are entirely +unprepared. It may, perhaps, not be the bare loss so much as the +strength of the bond which is broken that is the surprise, and we are +debtors in a way to death for revealing something in us which ordinary +life disguises. Long after the first madness of their grief had +passed, Clara and Madge were astonished to find how dependent they had +been on their mother. They were grown-up women accustomed to act +for themselves, but they felt unsteady, and as if deprived of customary +support. The reference to her had been constant, although it was +often silent, and they were not conscious of it. A defence from +the outside waste desert had been broken down, their mother had always +seemed to intervene between them and the world, and now they were exposed +and shelterless.</p> +<p>Three parts of Mrs Hopgood’s little income was mainly an annuity, +and Clara and Madge found that between them they had but seventy-five +pounds a year.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Frank could not rest. He wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; +the letter went to Mrs Cork’s, and was returned to him. +He saw that the Hopgoods had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, +he determined at any cost to go home. He accordingly alleged ill-health, +a pretext not altogether fictitious, and within a few days after the +returned letter reached him he was back at Stoke Newington. He +went immediately to the address in Pentonville which he found on the +envelope, but was very shortly informed by Mrs Cork that ‘she +knew nothing whatever about them.’ He walked round Myddelton +Square, hopeless, for he had no clue whatever.</p> +<p>What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused some +young men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was altogether different. +There was a chance of discovery, and if his crime should come to light +his whole future life would be ruined. He pictured his excommunication, +his father’s agony, and it was only when it seemed possible that +the water might close over the ghastly thing thrown in it, and no ripple +reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to breathe again. +Immediately he asked himself, however, <i>if</i> he could live with +his father and wear a mask, and never betray his dreadful secret. +So he wandered homeward in the most miserable of all conditions; he +was paralysed by the intricacy of the coil which enveloped and grasped +him.</p> +<p>That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his father’s +house; and, of course, he was expected to assist. It would have +suited his mood better if he could have been in his own room, or out +in the streets, but absence would have been inconsistent with his disguise, +and might have led to betrayal. Consequently he was present, and +the gaiety of the company and the excitement of his favourite exercise, +brought about for a time forgetfulness of his trouble. Amongst +the performers was a distant cousin, Cecilia Morland, a young woman +rather tall and fully developed; not strikingly beautiful, but with +a lovely reddish-brown tint on her face, indicative of healthy, warm, +rich pulsations. She possessed a contralto voice, of a quality +like that of a blackbird, and it fell to her and to Frank to sing. +She was dressed in a fashion perhaps a little more courtly than was +usual in the gatherings at Mr Palmer’s house, and Frank, as he +stood beside her at the piano, could not restrain his eyes from straying +every now and then a way from his music to her shoulders, and once nearly +lost himself, during a solo which required a little unusual exertion, +in watching the movement of a locket and of what was for a moment revealed +beneath it. He escorted her amidst applause to a corner of the +room, and the two sat down side by side.</p> +<p>‘What a long time it is, Frank, since you and I sang that duet +together. We have seen nothing of you lately.’</p> +<p>‘Of course not; I was in Germany.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do you +remember that summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, and the +part songs which astonished our neighbours just as it was growing dark? +I recollect you and I tried together that very duet for the first time +with the old lodging-house piano.’</p> +<p>Frank remembered that evening well.</p> +<p>‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep +time: what were you dreaming about?’</p> +<p>‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? +Let us go into the conservatory for a minute.’</p> +<p>The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just inside, +and under the orange tree.</p> +<p>‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have +a musical evening this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; +and we must sing that duet again, and sing it properly.’</p> +<p>He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, +and gave it to her.</p> +<p>‘That is a pledge. It is very good of you.’</p> +<p>She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she +dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find +it; rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head +nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily.</p> +<p>‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but mind, +I shall keep this flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make +any excuses I shall return it faded and withered.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I will come.’</p> +<p>‘Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. +No bad throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke +for you - a dead flower.’</p> +<p><i>Play me false</i>! It was as if there were some stoppage +in a main artery to his brain. <i>Play me false</i>! It +rang in his ears, and for a moment he saw nothing but the scene at the +Hall with Miranda. Fortunately for him, somebody claimed Cecilia, +and he slunk back into the greenhouse.</p> +<p>One of Mr Palmer’s favourite ballads was <i>The Three Ravens</i>. +Its pathos unfits it for an ordinary drawing-room, but as the music +at Mr Palmer’s was not of the common kind, <i>The Three Ravens</i> +was put on the list for that night.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘<i>She was dead herself ere evensong time. With a down, +hey down, hey down,<br />God send every gentleman<br />Such hawks, such +hounds, and such a leman. With down, hey down, hey down</i>.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he +painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in +a mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for +him stood next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out +into the garden and went down to the further end, hiding himself behind +the shrubs. Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved +by hearing an instrumental piece begin.</p> +<p>Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for his +unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he considered to +be his duty. He recalled with an effort all Madge’s charms, +mental and bodily, and he tried to break his heart for her. He +was in anguish because he found that in order to feel as he ought to +feel some effort was necessary; that treason to her was possible, and +because he had looked with such eyes upon his cousin that evening. +He saw himself as something separate from himself, and although he knew +what he saw to be flimsy and shallow, he could do nothing to deepen +it, absolutely nothing! It was not the betrayal of that thunderstorm +which now tormented him. He could have represented that as a failure +to be surmounted; he could have repented it. It was his own inner +being from which he revolted, from limitations which are worse than +crimes, for who, by taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The next morning found Frank once more in Myddelton Square. +He looked up at the house; the windows were all shut, and the blinds +were drawn down. He had half a mind to call again, but Mrs Cork’s +manner had been so offensive and repellent that he desisted. Presently +the door opened, and Maria, the maid, came out to clean the doorsteps. +Maria, as we have already said, was a little more human than her mistress, +and having overheard the conversation between her and Frank at the first +interview, had come to the conclusion that Frank was to be pitied, and +she took a fancy to him. Accordingly, when he passed her, she +looked up and said, - ‘Good-morning.’ Frank stopped, +and returned her greeting.</p> +<p>‘You was here the other day, sir, asking where them Hopgoods +had gone.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Frank, eagerly, ‘do you know what has +become of them?’</p> +<p>‘I helped the cabman with the boxes, and I heard Mrs Hopgood +say “Great Ormond Street,” but I have forgotten the number.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you very much.’</p> +<p>Frank gave the astonished and grateful Maria half-a-crown, and went +off to Great Ormond Street at once. He paced up and down the street +half a dozen times, hoping he might recognise in a window some ornament +from Fenmarket, or perhaps that he might be able to distinguish a piece +of Fenmarket furniture, but his search was in vain, for the two girls +had taken furnished rooms at the back of the house. His quest +was not renewed that week. What was there to be gained by going +over the ground again? Perhaps they might have found the lodgings +unsuitable and have moved elsewhere. At church on Sunday he met +his cousin Cecilia, who reminded him of his promise.</p> +<p>‘See,’ she said, ‘here is the begonia. I +put it in my prayer-book in order to preserve it when I could keep it +in water no longer, and it has stained the leaf, and spoilt the Athanasian +Creed. You will have it sent to you if you are faithless. +Reflect on your emotions, sir, when you receive a dead flower, and you +have the bitter consciousness also that you have damaged my creed without +any recompense.’</p> +<p>It was impossible not to protest that he had no thought of breaking +his engagement, although, to tell the truth, he had wished once or twice +he could find some way out of it. He walked with her down the +churchyard path to her carriage, assisted her into it, saluted her father +and mother, and then went home with his own people.</p> +<p>The evening came, he sang with Cecilia, and it was observed, and +he himself observed it, how completely their voices harmonised. +He was not without a competitor, a handsome young baritone, who was +much commended. When he came to the end of his performance everybody +said what a pity it was that the following duet could not also be given, +a duet which Cecilia knew perfectly well. She was very much pressed +to take her part with him, but she steadily refused, on the ground that +she had not practised it, that she had already sung once, and that she +was engaged to sing once more with her cousin. Frank was sitting +next to her, and she added, so as to be heard by him alone, ‘He +is no particular favourite of mine.’</p> +<p>There was no direct implication that Frank was a favourite, but an +inference was possible, and at least it was clear that she preferred +to reserve herself for him. Cecilia’s gifts, her fortune, +and her gay, happy face had made many a young fellow restless, and had +brought several proposals, none of which had been accepted. All +this Frank knew, and how could he repress something more than satisfaction +when he thought that perhaps he might have been the reason why nobody +as yet had been able to win her. She always called him Frank, +for although they were not first cousins, they were cousins. He +generally called her Cecilia, but she was Cissy in her own house. +He was hardly close enough to venture upon the more familiar nickname, +but to-night, as they rose to go to the piano, he said, and the baritone +sat next to her, -</p> +<p>‘Now, <i>Cissy</i>, once more.’</p> +<p>She looked at him with just a little start of surprise, and a smile +spread itself over her face. After they had finished, and she +never sang better, the baritone noticed that she seemed indisposed to +return to her former place, and she retired with Frank to the opposite +corner of the room.</p> +<p>‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if being happy in a thing +is a sign of being born to do it. If it is, I am born to be a +musician.’</p> +<p>‘I should say it is; if two people are quite happy in one another’s +company, it is as a sign they were born for one another.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, if they are sure they are happy. It is easier for +me to be sure that I am happier with a thing than with a person.’</p> +<p>‘Do you think so? Why?’</p> +<p>‘There is the uncertainty whether the person is happy with +me. I cannot be altogether happy with anybody unless I know I +make him happy.’</p> +<p>‘What kind of person is he with whom you <i>could</i> be without +making him happy?’</p> +<p>The baritone rose to the upper F with a clash of chords on the piano, +and the company broke up. Frank went home with but one thought +in his head - the thought of Cecilia.</p> +<p>His bedroom faced the south-west, its windows were open, and when +he entered, the wind, which was gradually rising, struck him on the +face and nearly forced the door out of his hand; the fire in his blood +was quenched, and the image of Cecilia receded. He looked out, +and saw reflected on the low clouds the dull glare of the distant city. +Just over there was Great Ormond Street, and underneath that dim, red +light, like the light of a great house burning, was Madge Hopgood. +He lay down, turning over from side to side in the vain hope that by +change of position he might sleep. After about an hour’s +feverish tossing, he just lost himself, but not in that oblivion which +slumber usually brought him. He was so far awake that he saw what +was around him, and yet, he was so far released from the control of +his reason that he did not recognise what he saw, and it became part +of a new scene created by his delirium. The full moon, clearing +away the clouds as she moved upwards, had now passed round to the south, +and just caught the white window-curtain farthest from him. He +half-opened his eyes, his mad dream still clung to him, and there was +the dead Madge before him, pale in death, and holding a child in her +arms! He distinctly heard himself scream as he started up in affright; +he could not tell where he was; the spectre faded and the furniture +and hangings transformed themselves into their familiar reality. +He could not lie down again, and rose and dressed himself. He +was not the man to believe that the ghost could be a revelation or a +prophecy, but, nevertheless, he was once more overcome with fear, a +vague dread partly justifiable by the fact of Madge, by the fact that +his father might soon know what had happened, that others also might +know, Cecilia for example, but partly also a fear going beyond all the +facts, and not to be accounted for by them, a strange, horrible trembling +such as men feel in earthquakes when the solid rock shakes, on which +everything rests.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>When Frank came downstairs to breakfast the conversation turned upon +his return to Germany. He did not object to going, although it +can hardly be said that he willed to go. He was in that perilous +condition in which the comparison of reasons is impossible, and the +course taken depends upon some chance impulse of the moment, and is +a mere drift. He could not leave, however, in complete ignorance +of Madge, and with no certainty as to her future. He resolved +therefore to make one more effort to discover the house. That +was all which he determined to do. What was to happen when he +had found it, he did not know. He was driven to do something, +which could not be of any importance, save for what must follow, but +he was unable to bring himself even to consider what was to follow. +He knew that at Fenmarket one or other of the sisters went out soon +after breakfast to make provision for the day, and perhaps, if they +kept up this custom, he might be successful in his search. He +accordingly stationed himself in Great Ormond Street at about half-past +nine, and kept watch from the Lamb’s Conduit Street end, shifting +his position as well as he could, in order to escape notice. He +had not been there half an hour when he saw a door open, and Madge came +out and went westwards. She turned down Devonshire Street as if +on her way to Holborn. He instantly ran back to Theobalds Road, +and when he came to the corner of Devonshire Street she was about ten +yards from him, and he faced her. She stopped irresolutely, as +if she had a mind to return, but as he approached her, and she found +she was recognised, she came towards him.</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge,’ he cried, ‘I want to speak to you. +I must speak with you.’</p> +<p>‘Better not; let me go.’</p> +<p>‘I say I <i>must</i> speak to you.’</p> +<p>‘We cannot talk here; let me go.’</p> +<p>‘I must! I must! come with me.’</p> +<p>She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not refuse. +He called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word having been spoken during +those ten minutes, they were at St Paul’s. The morning service +had just begun, and they sat down in a corner far away from the worshippers.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Madge,’ he began, ‘I implore you to take me +back. I love you. I do love you, and - and - I cannot leave +you.’</p> +<p>She was side by side with the father of her child about to be born. +He was not and could not be as another man to her, and for the moment +there was the danger lest she should mistake this secret bond for love. +The thought of what had passed between them, and of the child, his and +hers, almost overpowered her.</p> +<p>‘I cannot,’ he repeated. ‘I <i>ought</i> +not. What will become of me?’</p> +<p>She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement was +not contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was resonant, +but it was not a note which was consonant with hers, and it did not +stir her to respond. He might love her, he was sincere enough +to sacrifice himself for her, and to remain faithful to her, but the +voice was not altogether that of his own true self. Partly, at +least, it was the voice of what he considered to be duty, of superstition +and alarm. She was silent.</p> +<p>‘Madge,’ he continued, ‘ought you to refuse? +You have some love for me. Is it not greater than the love which +thousands feel for one another. Will you blast your future and +mine, and, perhaps, that of someone besides, who may be very dear to +you? <i>Ought</i> you not, I say, to listen?’</p> +<p>The service had come to an end, the organist was playing a voluntary, +rather longer than usual, and the congregation was leaving, some of +them passing near Madge and Frank, and casting idle glances on the young +couple who had evidently come neither to pray nor to admire the architecture. +Madge recognised the well-known St Ann’s fugue, and, strange to +say, even at such a moment it took entire possession of her; the golden +ladder was let down and celestial visitors descended. When the +music ceased she spoke.</p> +<p>‘It would be a crime.’</p> +<p>‘A crime, but I - ’ She stopped him.</p> +<p>‘I know what you are going to say. I know what is the +crime to the world; but it would have been a crime, perhaps a worse +crime, if a ceremony had been performed beforehand by a priest, and +the worst of crimes would be that ceremony now. I must go.’ +She rose and began to move towards the door.</p> +<p>He walked silently by her side till they were in St Paul’s +churchyard, when she took him by the hand, pressed it affectionately +and suddenly turned into one of the courts that lead towards Paternoster +Row. He did not follow her, something repelled him, and when he +reached home it crossed his mind that marriage, after such delay, would +be a poor recompense, as he could not thereby conceal her disgrace.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was clear that these two women could not live in London on seventy-five +pounds a year, most certainly not with the prospect before them, and +Clara cast about for something to do. Marshall had a brother-in-law, +a certain Baruch Cohen, a mathematical instrument maker in Clerkenwell, +and to him Marshall accidentally one day talked about Clara, and said +that she desired an occupation. Cohen himself could not give Clara +any work, but he knew a second-hand bookseller, an old man who kept +a shop in Holborn, who wanted a clerk, and Clara thus found herself +earning another pound a week. With this addition she and her sister +could manage to pay their way and provide what Madge would want. +The hours were long, the duties irksome and wearisome, and, worst of +all, the conditions under which they were performed, were not only as +bad as they could be, but their badness was of a kind to which Clara +had never been accustomed, so that she felt every particle of it in +its full force. The windows of the shop were, of course, full +of books, and the walls were lined with them. In the middle of +the shop also was a range of shelves, and books were stacked on the +floor, so that the place looked like a huge cubical block of them through +which passages had been bored. At the back the shop became contracted +in width to about eight feet, and consequently the central shelves were +not continued there, but just where they ended, and overshadowed by +them were a little desk and a stool. All round the desk more books +were piled, and some manœuvring was necessary in order to sit +down. This was Clara’s station. Occasionally, on a +brilliant, a very brilliant day in summer, she could write without gas, +but, perhaps, there were not a dozen such days in the year. By +twisting herself sideways she could just catch a glimpse of a narrow +line of sky over some heavy theology which was not likely to be disturbed, +and was therefore put at the top of the window, and once when somebody +bought the <i>Calvin Joann. Opera Omnia, 9 vol. folio, Amst</i>. +1671 - it was very clear that afternoon - she actually descried towards +seven o’clock a blessed star exactly in the middle of the gap +the Calvin had left.</p> +<p>The darkness was very depressing, and poor Clara often shut her eyes +as she bent over her day-book and ledger, and thought of the Fenmarket +flats where the sun could be seen bisected by the horizon at sun-rising +and sun-setting, and where even the southern Antares shone with diamond +glitter close to the ground during summer nights. She tried to +reason with herself during the dreadful smoke fogs; she said to herself +that they were only half-a-mile thick, and she carried herself up in +imagination and beheld the unclouded azure, the filthy smother lying +all beneath her, but her dream did not continue, and reality was too +strong for her. Worse, perhaps, than the eternal gloom was the +dirt. She was naturally fastidious, and as her skin was thin and +sensitive, dust was physically a discomfort. Even at Fenmarket +she was continually washing her hands and face, and, indeed, a wash +was more necessary to her after a walk than food or drink. It +was impossible to remain clean in Holborn for five minutes; everything +she touched was foul with grime; her collar and cuffs were black with +it when she went home to her dinner, and it was not like the honest, +blowing road-sand of Fenmarket highways, but a loathsome composition +of everything disgusting which could be produced by millions of human +beings and animals packed together in soot. It was a real misery +to her and made her almost ill. However, she managed to set up +for herself a little lavatory in the basement, and whenever she had +a minute at her command, she descended and enjoyed the luxury of a cool, +dripping sponge and a piece of yellow soap. The smuts began to +gather again the moment she went upstairs, but she strove to arm herself +with a little philosophy against them. ‘What is there in +life,’ she moralised, smiling at her sermonising, ‘which +once won is for ever won? It is always being won and always being +lost.’ Her master, fortunately, was one of the kindest of +men, an old gentleman of about sixty-five, who wore a white necktie, +clean every morning. He was really a <i>gentle</i>man in the true +sense of that much misused word, and not a mere <i>trades</i>man; that +is to say, he loved his business, not altogether for the money it brought +him, but as an art. He was known far and wide, and literary people +were glad to gossip with him. He never pushed his wares, and he +hated to sell them to anybody who did not know their value. He +amused Clara one afternoon when a carriage stopped at the door, and +a lady inquired if he had a Manning and Bray’s <i>History of Surrey</i>. +Yes, he had a copy, and he pointed to the three handsome, tall folios.</p> +<p>‘What is the price?’</p> +<p>‘Twelve pounds ten.’</p> +<p>‘I think I will have them.’</p> +<p>‘Madam, you will pardon me, but, if I were you, I would not. +I think something much cheaper will suit you better. If you will +allow me, I will look out for you and will report in a few days.’</p> +<p>‘Oh! very well,’ and she departed.</p> +<p>‘The wife of a brassfounder,’ he said to Clara; ‘made +a lot of money, and now he has bought a house at Dulwich and is setting +up a library. Somebody has told him that he ought to have a county +history, and that Manning and Bray is the book. Manning and Bray! +What he wants is a Dulwich and Denmark Hill Directory. No, no,’ +and he took down one of the big volumes, blew the dust off the top edges +and looked at the old book-plate inside, ‘you won’t go there +if I can help it.’ He took a fancy to Clara when he found +she loved literature, although what she read was out of his department +altogether, and his perfectly human behaviour to her prevented that +sense of exile and loneliness which is so horrible to many a poor creature +who comes up to London to begin therein the struggle for existence. +She read and meditated a good deal in the shop, but not to much profit, +for she was continually interrupted, and the thought of her sister intruded +itself perpetually.</p> +<p>Madge seldom or never spoke of her separation from Frank, but one +night, when she was somewhat less reserved than usual, Clara ventured +to ask her if she had heard from him since they parted.</p> +<p>‘I met him once.’</p> +<p>‘Madge, do you mean that he found out where we are living, +and that he came to see you?’</p> +<p>‘No, it was just round the corner as I was going towards Holborn.’</p> +<p>‘Nothing could have brought him here but yourself,’ said +Clara, slowly.</p> +<p>‘Clara, you doubt?’</p> +<p>‘No, no! I doubt you? Never!’</p> +<p>‘But you hesitate; you reflect. Speak out.’</p> +<p>‘God forbid I should utter a word which would induce you to +disbelieve what you know to be right. It is much more important +to believe earnestly that something is morally right than that it should +be really right, and he who attempts to displace a belief runs a certain +risk, because he is not sure that what he substitutes can be held with +equal force. Besides, each person’s belief, or proposed +course of action, is a part of himself, and if he be diverted from it +and takes up with that which is not himself, the unity of his nature +is impaired, and he loses himself.’</p> +<p>‘Which is as much as to say that the prophet is to break no +idols.’</p> +<p>‘You know I do not mean that, and you know, too, how incapable +I am of defending myself in argument. I never can stand up for +anything I say. I can now and then say something, but, when I +have said it, I run away.’</p> +<p>‘My dearest Clara,’ Madge put her arm over her sister’s +shoulder as they sat side by side, ‘do not run away now; tell +me just what you think of me.’</p> +<p>Clara was silent for a minute.</p> +<p>‘I have sometimes wondered whether you have not demanded a +little too much of yourself and Frank. It is always a question +of how much. There is no human truth which is altogether true, +no love which is altogether perfect. You may possibly have neglected +virtue or devotion such as you could not find elsewhere, overlooking +it because some failing, or the lack of sympathy on some unimportant +point, may at the moment have been prominent. Frank loved you, +Madge.’</p> +<p>Madge did not reply; she withdrew her arm from her sister’s +neck, threw herself back in her chair and closed her eyes. She +saw again the Fenmarket roads, that summer evening, and she felt once +more Frank’s burning caresses. She thought of him as he +left St Paul’s, perhaps broken-hearted. Stronger than every +other motive to return to him, and stronger than ever, was the movement +towards him of that which belonged to him.</p> +<p>At last she cried out, literally cried, with a vehemence which startled +and terrified Clara, -</p> +<p>‘Clara, Clara, you know not what you do! For God’s +sake forbear!’ She was again silent, and then she turned +round hurriedly, hid her face, and sobbed piteously. It lasted, +however, but for a minute; she rose, wiped her eyes, went to the window, +came back again, and said, -</p> +<p>‘It is beginning to snow.’</p> +<p>The iron pillar bolted to the solid rock had quivered and resounded +under the blow, but its vibrations were nothing more than those of the +rigid metal; the base was unshaken and, except for an instant, the column +had not been deflected a hair’s-breadth.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mr Cohen, who had obtained the situation indirectly for Clara, thought +nothing more about it until, one day, he went to the shop, and he then +recollected his recommendation, which had been given solely in faith, +for he had never seen the young woman, and had trusted entirely to Marshall. +He found her at her dark desk, and as he approached her, she hastily +put a mark in a book and closed it.</p> +<p>‘Have you sold a little volume called <i>After Office Hours</i> +by a man named Robinson?’</p> +<p>‘I did not know we had it. I have never seen it.’</p> +<p>‘I do not wonder, but I saw it here about six months ago; it +was up there,’ pointing to a top shelf. Clara was about +to mount the ladder, but he stopped her, and found what he wanted. +Some of the leaves were torn.</p> +<p>‘We can repair those for you; in about a couple of days it +shall be ready.’</p> +<p>He lingered a little, and at that moment another customer entered. +Clara went forward to speak to him, and Cohen was able to see that it +was the <i>Heroes and Hero Worship</i> she had been studying, a course +of lectures which had been given by a Mr Carlyle, of whom Cohen knew +something. As the customer showed no signs of departing, Cohen +left, saying he would call again.</p> +<p>Before sending Robinson’s <i>After Office Hours</i> to the +binder, Clara looked at it. It was made up of short essays, about +twenty altogether, bound in dark-green cloth, lettered at the side, +and published in 1841. They were upon the oddest subjects: such +as, <i>Ought Children to learn Rules before Reasons? The Higher +Mathematics and Materialism. Ought We to tell Those Whom We love +what We think about Them? Deductive Reasoning in Politics. +What Troubles ought We to Make Known and What ought We to Keep Secret: +Courage as a Science and an Art.</i></p> +<p>Clara did not read any one essay through, she had no time, but she +was somewhat struck with a few sentences which caught her eye; for example +- ‘A mere dream, a vague hope, ought in some cases to be more +potent than a certainty in regulating our action. The faintest +vision of God should be more determinative than the grossest earthly +assurance.’</p> +<p>‘I knew a case in which a man had to encounter three successive +trials of all the courage and inventive faculty in him. Failure +in one would have been ruin. The odds against him in each trial +were desperate, and against ultimate victory were overwhelming. +Nevertheless, he made the attempt, and was triumphant, by the narrowest +margin, in every struggle. That which is of most value to us is +often obtained in defiance of the laws of probability.’</p> +<p>‘What is precious in Quakerism is not so much the doctrine +of the Divine voice as that of the preliminary stillness, the closure +against other voices and the reduction of the mind to a condition in +which it can <i>listen</i>, in which it can discern the merest whisper, +inaudible when the world, or interest, or passion, are permitted to +speak.’</p> +<p>‘The acutest syllogiser can never develop the actual consequences +of any system of policy, or, indeed, of any change in human relationship, +man being so infinitely complex, and the interaction of human forces +so incalculable.’</p> +<p>‘Many of our speculative difficulties arise from the unauthorised +conception of an <i>omnipotent</i> God, a conception entirely of our +own creation, and one which, if we look at it closely, has no meaning. +It is because God <i>could</i> have done otherwise, and did not, that +we are confounded. It may be distressing to think that God cannot +do any better, but it is not so distressing as to believe that He might +have done better had He so willed.’</p> +<p>Although these passages were disconnected, each of them seemed to +Clara to be written in a measure for herself, and her curiosity was +excited about the author. Perhaps the man who called would say +something about him.</p> +<p>Baruch Cohen was now a little over forty. He was half a Jew, +for his father was a Jew and his mother a Gentile. The father +had broken with Judaism, but had not been converted to any Christian +church or sect. He was a diamond-cutter, originally from Holland, +came over to England and married the daughter of a mathematical instrument +maker, at whose house he lodged in Clerkenwell. The son was apprenticed +to his maternal grandfather’s trade, became very skilful at it, +worked at it himself, employed a man and a boy, and supplied London +shops, which sold his instruments at about three times the price he +obtained for them. Baruch, when he was very young, married Marshall’s +elder sister, but she died at the birth of her first child and he had +been a widower now for nineteen years. He had often thought of +taking another wife, and had seen, during these nineteen years, two +or three women with whom he had imagined himself to be really in love, +and to whom he had been on the verge of making proposals, but in each +case he had hung back, and when he found that a second and a third had +awakened the same ardour for a time as the first, he distrusted its +genuineness. He was now, too, at a time of life when a man has +to make the unpleasant discovery that he is beginning to lose the right +to expect what he still eagerly desires, and that he must beware of +being ridiculous. It is indeed a very unpleasant discovery. +If he has done anything well which was worth doing, or has made himself +a name, he may be treated by women with respect or adulation, but any +passable boy of twenty is really more interesting to them, and, unhappily, +there is perhaps so much of the man left in him that he would rather +see the eyes of a girl melt when she looked at him than be adored by +all the drawing-rooms in London as the author of the greatest poem since +<i>Paradise Lost</i>, or as the conqueror of half a continent. +Baruch’s life during the last nineteen years had been such that +he was still young, and he desired more than ever, because not so blindly +as he desired it when he was a youth, the tender, intimate sympathy +of a woman’s love. It was singular that, during all those +nineteen years, he should not once have been overcome. It seemed +to him as if he had been held back, not by himself, but by some external +power, which refused to give any reasons for so doing. There was +now less chance of yielding than ever; he was reserved and self-respectful, +and his manner towards women distinctly announced to them that he knew +what he was and that he had no claims whatever upon them. He was +something of a philosopher, too; he accepted, therefore, as well as +he could, without complaint, the inevitable order of nature, and he +tried to acquire, although often he failed, that blessed art of taking +up lightly and even with a smile whatever he was compelled to handle. +‘It is possible,’ he said once, ‘to consider death +too seriously.’ He was naturally more than half a Jew; his +features were Jewish, his thinking was Jewish, and he believed after +a fashion in the Jewish sacred books, or, at anyrate, read them continuously, +although he had added to his armoury defensive weapons of another type. +In nothing was he more Jewish than in a tendency to dwell upon the One, +or what he called God, clinging still to the expression of his forefathers +although departing so widely from them. In his ethics and system +of life, as well as in his religion, there was the same intolerance +of a multiplicity which was not reducible to unity. He seldom +explained his theory, but everybody who knew him recognised the difference +which it wrought between him and other men. There was a certain +concord in everything he said and did, as if it were directed by some +enthroned but secret principle.</p> +<p>He had encountered no particular trouble since his wife’s death, +but his life had been unhappy. He had no friends, much as he longed +for friendship, and he could not give any reasons for his failure. +He saw other persons more successful, but he remained solitary. +Their needs were not so great as his, for it is not those who have the +least but those who have the most to give who most want sympathy. +He had often made advances; people had called on him and had appeared +interested in him, but they had dropped away. The cause was chiefly +to be found in his nationality. The ordinary Englishman disliked +him simply as a Jew, and the better sort were repelled by a lack of +geniality and by his inability to manifest a healthy interest in personal +details. Partly also the cause was that those who care to speak +about what is nearest to them are very rare, and most persons find conversation +easy in proportion to the remoteness of its topics from them. +Whatever the reasons may have been, Baruch now, no matter what the pressure +from within might be, generally kept himself to himself. It was +a mistake and he ought not to have retreated so far upon repulse. +A word will sometimes, when least expected, unlock a heart, a soul is +gained for ever, and at once there is much more than a recompense for +the indifference of years.</p> +<p>After the death of his wife, Baruch’s affection spent itself +upon his son Benjamin, whom he had apprenticed to a firm of optical +instrument makers in York. The boy was not very much like his +father. He was indifferent to that religion by which his father +lived, but he inherited an aptitude for mathematics, which was very +necessary in his trade. Benjamin also possessed his father’s +rectitude, trusted him, and looked to him for advice to such a degree +that even Baruch, at last, thought it would be better to send him away +from home in order that he might become a little more self-reliant and +independent. It was the sorest of trials to part with him, and, +for some time after he left, Baruch’s loneliness was intolerable. +It was, however, relieved by a visit to York perhaps once in four or +five months, for whenever business could be alleged as an excuse for +going north, he managed, as he said, ‘to take York on his way.’</p> +<p>The day after he met Clara he started for Birmingham, and although +York was certainly not ‘on his way,’ he pushed forward to +the city and reached it on a Saturday evening. He was to spend +Sunday there, and on Sunday morning he proposed that they should hear +the cathedral service, and go for a walk in the afternoon. To +this suggestion Benjamin partially assented. He wished to go to +the cathedral in the morning, but thought his father had better rest +after dinner. Baruch somewhat resented the insinuation of possible +fatigue consequent on advancing years.</p> +<p>‘What do you mean?’ he said; ‘you know well enough +I enjoy a walk in the afternoon; besides, I shall not see much of you, +and do not want to lose what little time I have.’</p> +<p>About three, therefore, they started, and presently a girl met them, +who was introduced simply as ‘Miss Masters.’</p> +<p>‘We are going to your side of the water,’ said the son; +‘you may as well cross with us.’</p> +<p>They came to a point where a boat was moored, and a man was in it. +There was no regular ferry, but on Sundays he earned a trifle by taking +people to the opposite meadow, and thus enabling them to vary their +return journey to the city. When they were about two-thirds of +the way over, Benjamin observed that if they stood up they could see +the Minster. They all three rose, and without an instant’s +warning - they could not tell afterwards how it happened - the boat +half capsized, and they were in eight or nine feet of water. Baruch +could not swim and went down at once, but on coming up close to the +gunwale he caught at it and held fast. Looking round, he saw that +Benjamin, who could swim well, had made for Miss Masters, and, having +caught her by the back of the neck, was taking her ashore. The +boatman, who could also swim, called out to Baruch to hold on, gave +the boat three or four vigorous strokes from the stern, and Baruch felt +the ground under his feet. The boatman’s little cottage +was not far off, and, when the party reached it, Benjamin earnestly +desired Miss Masters to take off her wet clothes and occupy the bed +which was offered her. He himself would run home - it was not +half-a-mile - and, after having changed, would go to her house and send +her sister with what was wanted. He was just off when it suddenly +struck him that his father might need some attention.</p> +<p>‘Oh, father - ’ he began, but the boatman’s wife +interposed.</p> +<p>‘He can’t be left like that, and he can’t go home; +he’ll catch his death o’ cold, and there isn’t but +one more bed in the house, and that isn’t quite fit to put a gentleman +in. Howsomever, he must turn in there, and my husband, he can +go into the back-kitchen and rub himself down. You won’t +do yourself no good, Mr Cohen,’ addressing the son, whom she knew, +‘by going back; you’d better stay here and get into bed +with your father.’</p> +<p>In a few minutes the boatman would have gone on the errand, but Benjamin +could not lose the opportunity of sacrificing himself for Miss Masters. +He rushed off, and in three-quarters of an hour had returned with the +sister. Having learned, after anxious inquiry, that Miss Masters, +so far as could be discovered, had not caught a chill, he went to his +father.</p> +<p>‘Well, father, I hope you are none the worse for the ducking,’ +he said gaily. ‘The next time you come to York you’d +better bring another suit of clothes with you.’</p> +<p>Baruch turned round uneasily and did not answer immediately. +He had had a narrow escape from drowning.</p> +<p>‘Nothing of much consequence. Is your friend all right?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes; I was anxious about her, for she is not very strong, +but I do not think she will come to much harm. I made them light +a fire in her room.’</p> +<p>‘Are they drying my clothes?’</p> +<p>‘I’ll go and see.’</p> +<p>He went away and encountered the elder Miss Masters, who told him +that her sister, feeling no ill effects from the plunge, had determined +to go home at once, and in fact was nearly ready. Benjamin waited, +and presently she came downstairs, smiling.</p> +<p>‘Nothing the matter. I owe it to you, however, that I +am not now in another world.’</p> +<p>Benjamin was in an ecstasy, and considered himself bound to accompany +her to her door.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Baruch lay upstairs alone in no very happy temper. +He heard the conversation below, and knew that his son had gone. +In all genuine love there is something of ferocious selfishness. +The perfectly divine nature knows how to keep it in check, and is even +capable - supposing it to be a woman’s nature - of contentment +if the loved one is happy, no matter with what or with whom; but the +nature only a little less than divine cannot, without pain, endure the +thought that it no longer owns privately and exclusively that which +it loves, even when it loves a child, and Baruch was particularly excusable, +considering his solitude. Nevertheless, he had learned a little +wisdom, and, what was of much greater importance, had learned how to +use it when he needed it. It had been forced upon him; it was +an adjustment to circumstances, the wisest wisdom. It was not +something without any particular connection with him; it was rather +the external protection built up from within to shield him where he +was vulnerable; it was the answer to questions which had been put to +<i>him</i>, and not to those which had been put to other people. +So it came to pass that, when he said bitterly to himself that, if he +were at that moment lying dead at the bottom of the river, Benjamin +would have found consolation very near at hand, he was able to reflect +upon the folly of self-laceration, and to rebuke himself for a complaint +against what was simply the order of Nature, and not a personal failure.</p> +<p>His self-conquest, however, was not very permanent. When he +left York the next morning, he fancied his son was not particularly +grieved, and he was passive under the thought that an epoch in his life +had come, that the milestones now began to show the distance to the +place to which he travelled, and, still worse, that the boy who had +been so close to him, and upon whom he had so much depended, had gone +from him.</p> +<p>There is no remedy for our troubles which is uniformly and progressively +efficacious. All that we have a right to expect from our religion +is that gradually, very gradually, it will assist us to a real victory. +After each apparent defeat, if we are bravely in earnest, we gain something +on our former position. Baruch was two days on his journey back +to town, and as he came nearer home, he recovered himself a little. +Suddenly he remembered the bookshop and the book for which he had to +call, and that he had intended to ask Marshall something about the bookseller’s +new assistant.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Madge was a puzzle to Mrs Caffyn. Mrs Caffyn loved her, and +when she was ill had behaved like a mother to her. The newly-born +child, a healthy girl, was treated by Mrs Caffyn as if it were her own +granddaughter, and many little luxuries were bought which never appeared +in Mrs Marshall’s weekly bill. Naturally, Mrs Caffyn’s +affection moved a response from Madge, and Mrs Caffyn by degrees heard +the greater part of her history; but why she had separated herself from +her lover without any apparent reason remained a mystery, and all the +greater was the mystery because Mrs Caffyn believed that there were +no other facts to be known than those she knew. She longed to +bring about a reconciliation. It was dreadful to her that Madge +should be condemned to poverty, and that her infant should be fatherless, +although there was a gentleman waiting to take them both and make them +happy.</p> +<p>‘The hair won’t be dark like yours, my love,’ she +said one afternoon, soon after Madge had come downstairs and was lying +on the sofa. ‘The hair do darken a lot, but hers will never +be black. It’s my opinion as it’ll be fair.’</p> +<p>Madge did not speak, and Mrs Caffyn, who was sitting at the head +of the couch, put her work and her spectacles on the table. It +was growing dusk; she took Madge’s hand, which hung down by her +side, and gently lifted it up. Such a delicate hand, Mrs Caffyn +thought. She was proud that she had for a friend the owner of +such a hand, who behaved to her as an equal. It was delightful +to be kissed - no mere formal salutations - by a lady fit to go into +the finest drawing-room in London, but it was a greater delight that +Madge’s talk suited her better than any she had heard at Great +Oakhurst. It was natural she should rejoice when she discovered, +unconsciously that she had a soul, to which the speech of the stars, +though somewhat strange, was not an utterly foreign tongue.</p> +<p>She retained her hold on Madge’s hand.</p> +<p>‘May be,’ she continued, ‘it’ll be like its +father’s. In our family all the gals take after the father, +and all the boys after the mother. I suppose as <i>he</i> has +lightish hair?’</p> +<p>Still Madge said nothing.</p> +<p>‘It isn’t easy to believe as the father of that blessed +dear could have been a bad lot. I’m sure he isn’t, +and yet there’s that Polesden gal at the farm, she as went wrong +with Jim, a great ugly brute, and she herself warnt up to much, well, +as I say, her child was the delicatest little angel as I ever saw. +It’s my belief as God-a-mighty mixes Hisself up in it more nor +we think. But there <i>was</i> nothing amiss with him, was there, +my sweet?’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn inclined her head towards Madge.</p> +<p>‘Oh, no! Nothing, nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you think, my dear, if there’s nothing atwixt +you, as it was a flyin’ in the face of Providence to turn him +off? You were reglarly engaged to him, and I have heard you say +he was very fond of you. I suppose there were some high words +about something, and a kind of a quarrel like, and so you parted, but +that’s nothing. It might all be made up now, and it ought +to be made up. What was it about?’</p> +<p>‘There was no quarrel.’</p> +<p>‘Well, of course, if you don’t like to say anything more +to me, I won’t ask you. I don’t want to hear any secrets +as I shouldn’t hear. I speak only because I can’t +abear to see you here when I believe as everything might be put right, +and you might have a house of your own, and a good husband, and be happy +for the rest of your days. It isn’t too late for that now. +I know what I know, and as how he’d marry you at once.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, my dear Mrs Caffyn, I have no secret from you, who have +been so good to me: I can only say I could not love him - not as I ought.’</p> +<p>‘If you can’t love a man, that’s to say if you +can’t <i>abear</i> him, it’s wrong to have him, but if there’s +a child that does make a difference, for one has to think of the child +and of being respectable. There’s something in being respectable; +although, for that matter, I’ve see’d respectable people +at Great Oakhurst as were ten times worse than those as aren’t. +Still, a-speaking for myself, I’d put up with a goodish bit to +marry the man whose child wor mine.’</p> +<p>‘For myself I could, but it wouldn’t be just to him.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t see what you mean.’</p> +<p>‘I mean that I could sacrifice myself if I believed it to be +my duty, but I should wrong him cruelly if I were to accept him and +did not love him with all my heart.’</p> +<p>‘My dear, you take my word for it, he isn’t so particklar +as you are. A man isn’t so particklar as a woman. +He goes about his work, and has all sorts of things in his head, and +if a woman makes him comfortable when he comes home, he’s all +right. I won’t say as one woman is much the same as another +to a man - leastways to all men - but still they are <i>not</i> particklar. +Maybe, though, it isn’t quite the same with gentlefolk like yourself, +- but there’s that blessed baby a-cryin’.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn hastened upstairs, leaving Madge to her reflections. +Once more the old dialectic reappeared. ‘After all,’ +she thought, ‘it is, as Clara said, a question of degree. +There are not a thousand husbands and wives in this great city whose +relationship comes near perfection. If I felt aversion my course +would be clear, but there is no aversion; on the contrary, our affection +for one another is sufficient for a decent household and decent existence +undisturbed by catastrophes. No brighter sunlight is obtained +by others far better than myself. Ought I to expect a refinement +of relationship to which I have no right? Our claims are always +beyond our deserts, and we are disappointed if our poor, mean, defective +natures do not obtain the homage which belongs to those of ethereal +texture. It will be a life with no enthusiasms nor romance, perhaps, +but it will be tolerable, and what may be called happy, and my child +will be protected and educated. My child! what is there which +I ought to put in the balance against her? If our sympathy is +not complete, I have my own little oratory: I can keep the candles alight, +close the door, and worship there alone.’</p> +<p>So she mused, and her foes again ranged themselves over against her. +There was nothing to support her but something veiled, which would not +altogether disclose or explain itself. Nevertheless, in a few +minutes, her enemies had vanished, like a mist before a sudden wind, +and she was once more victorious. Precious and rare are those +divine souls, to whom that which is aërial is substantial, the +only true substance; those for whom a pale vision possesses an authority +they are forced unconditionally to obey.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mrs Caffyn was unhappy, and made up her mind that she would talk +to Frank herself. She had learned enough about him from the two +sisters, especially from Clara, to make her believe that, with a very +little management, she could bring him back to Madge. The difficulty +was to see him without his father’s knowledge. At last she +determined to write to him, and she made her son-in-law address the +envelope and mark it private. This is what she said:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘DEAR SIR, - Although unbeknown to you, I take the liberty +of telling you as M. H. is alivin’ here with me, and somebody +else as I think you ought to see, but perhaps I’d better have +a word or two with you myself, if not quite ill-convenient to you, and +maybe you’ll be kind enough to say how that’s to be done +to your obedient, humble servant,</p> +<p>‘MRS CAFFYN.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>She thought this very diplomatic, inasmuch as nobody but Frank could +possibly suspect what the letter meant. It went to Stoke Newington, +but, alas! he was in Germany, and poor Mrs Caffyn had to wait a week +before she received a reply. Frank of course understood it. +Although he had thought about Madge continually, he had become calmer. +He saw, it is true, that there was no stability in his position, and +that he could not possibly remain where he was. Had Madge been +the commonest of the common, and his relationship to her the commonest +of the common, he could not permit her to cast herself loose from him +for ever and take upon herself the whole burden of his misdeed. +But he did not know what to do, and, as successive considerations and +reconsiderations ended in nothing, and the distractions of a foreign +country were so numerous, Madge had for a time been put aside, like +a huge bill which we cannot pay, and which staggers us. We therefore +docket it, and hide it in the desk, and we imagine we have done something. +Once again, however, the flame leapt up out of the ashes, vivid as ever. +Once again the thought that he had been so close to Madge, and that +she had yielded to him, touched him with peculiar tenderness, and it +seemed impossible to part himself from her. To a man with any +of the nobler qualities of man it is not only a sense of honour which +binds him to a woman who has given him all she has to give. Separation +seems unnatural, monstrous, a divorce from himself; it is not she alone, +but it is himself whom he abandons. Frank’s duty, too, pointed +imperiously to the path he ought to take, duty to the child as well +as to the mother. He determined to go home, secretly; Mrs Caffyn +would not have written if she had not seen good reason for believing +that Madge still belonged to him. He made up his mind to start +the next day, but when the next day came, instructions to go immediately +to Hamburg arrived from his father. There were rumours of the +insolvency of a house with which Mr Palmer dealt; inquiries were necessary +which could better be made personally, and if these rumours were correct, +as Mr Palmer believed them to be, his agency must be transferred to +some other firm. There was now no possibility of a journey to +England. For a moment he debated whether, when he was at Hamburg, +he could not slip over to London, but it would be dangerous. Further +orders might come from his father, and the failure to acknowledge them +would lead to evasion, and perhaps to discovery. He must, therefore, +content himself with a written explanation to Mrs Caffyn why he could +not meet her, and there should be one more effort to make atonement +to Madge. This was what went to Mrs Caffyn, and to her lodger:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘DEAR MADAM, - Your note has reached me here. I am very +sorry that my engagements are so pressing that I cannot leave Germany +at present. I have written to Miss Hopgood. There is one +subject which I cannot mention to her - I cannot speak to her about +money. Will you please give me full information? I enclose +£20, and I must trust to your discretion. I thank you heartily +for all your kindness. - Truly yours,</p> +<p>‘FRANK PALMER.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘MY DEAREST MADGE, - I cannot help saying one more word to +you, although, when I last saw you, you told me that it was useless +for me to hope. I know, however, that there is now another bond +between us, the child is mine as well as yours, and if I am not all +that you deserve, ought you to prevent me from doing my duty to it as +well as to you? It is true that if we were to marry I could never +right you, and perhaps my father would have nothing to do with us, but +in time he might relent, and I will come over at once, or, at least, +the moment I have settled some business here, and you shall be my wife. +Do, my dearest Madge, consent.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>When he came to this point his pen stopped. What he had written +was very smooth, but very tame and cold. However, nothing better +presented itself; he changed his position, sat back in his chair, and +searched himself, but could find nothing. It was not always so. +Some months ago there would have been no difficulty, and he would not +have known when to come to an end. The same thing would have been +said a dozen times, perhaps, but it would not have seemed the same to +him, and each succeeding repetition would have been felt with the force +of novelty. He took a scrap of paper and tried to draft two or +three sentences, altered them several times and made them worse. +He then re-read the letter; it was too short; but after all it contained +what was necessary, and it must go as it stood. She knew how he +felt towards her. So he signed it after giving his address at +Hamburg, and it was posted.</p> +<p>Three or four days afterwards Mrs Marshall, in accordance with her +usual custom, went to see Madge before she was up. The child lay +peacefully by its mother’s side and Frank’s letter was upon +the counterpane. The resolution that no letter from him should +be opened had been broken. The two women had become great friends +and, within the last few weeks, Madge had compelled Mrs Marshall to +call her by her Christian name.</p> +<p>‘You’ve had a letter from Mr Palmer; I was sure it was +his handwriting when it came late last night.’</p> +<p>‘You can read it; there is nothing private in it.’</p> +<p>She turned round to the child and Mrs Marshall sat down and read. +When she had finished she laid the letter on the bed again and was silent.</p> +<p>‘Well?’ said Madge. ‘Would you say “No?”’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I would.’</p> +<p>‘For your own sake, as well as for his?’</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall took up the letter and read half of it again.</p> +<p>‘Yes, you had better say “No.” You will find +it dull, especially if you have to live in London.’</p> +<p>‘Did you find London dull when you came to live in it?’</p> +<p>‘Rather; Marshall is away all day long.’</p> +<p>‘But scarcely any woman in London expects to marry a man who +is not away all day.’</p> +<p>‘They ought then to have heaps of work, or they ought to have +a lot of children to look after; but, perhaps, being born and bred in +the country, I do not know what people in London are. Recollect +you were country born and bred yourself, or, at anyrate, you have lived +in the country for the most of your life.’</p> +<p>‘Dull! we must all expect to be dull.’</p> +<p>‘There’s nothing worse. I’ve had rheumatic +fever, and I say, give me the fever rather than what comes over me at +times here. If Marshall had not been so good to me, I do not know +what I should have done with myself.’</p> +<p>Madge turned round and looked Mrs Marshall straight in the face, +but she did not flinch.</p> +<p>‘Marshall is very good to me, but I was glad when mother and +you and your sister came to keep me company when he is not at home. +It tired me to have my meals alone: it is bad for the digestion; at +least, so he says, and he believes that it was indigestion that was +the matter with me. I should be sorry for myself if you were to +go away; not that I want to put that forward. Maybe I should never +see much more of you: he is rich: you might come here sometimes, but +he would not like to have Marshall and mother and me at his house.’</p> +<p>Not a word was spoken for at least a minute.</p> +<p>Suddenly Mrs Marshall took Madge’s hand in her own hands, leaned +over her, and in that kind of whisper with which we wake a sleeper who +is to be aroused to escape from sudden peril, she said in her ear, -</p> +<p>‘Madge, Madge: for God’s sake leave him!’</p> +<p>‘I have left him.’</p> +<p>‘Are you sure?’</p> +<p>‘Quite.’</p> +<p>‘For ever?’</p> +<p>‘For ever!’</p> +<p>Mrs Marshall let go Madge’s hand, turned her eyes towards her +intently for a moment, and again bent over her as if she were about +to embrace her. A knock, however, came at the door, and Mrs Caffyn +entered with the cup of coffee which she always insisted on bringing +before Madge rose. After she and her daughter had left, Madge +read the letter once more. There was nothing new in it, but formally +it was something, like the tolling of the bell when we know that our +friend is dead. There was a little sobbing, and then she kissed +her child with such eagerness that it began to cry.</p> +<p>‘You’ll answer that letter, I suppose?’ said Mrs +Caffyn, when they were alone.</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>‘I’m rather glad. It would worrit you, and there’s +nothing worse for a baby than worritin’ when it’s mother’s +a-feedin it.’</p> +<p>Mr Caffyn wrote as follows:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘DEAR SIR, - I was sorry as you couldn’t come; but I +believe now as it was better as you didn’t. I am no scollard, +and so no more from your obedient, humble servant,</p> +<p>‘MRS CAFFYN.</p> +<p>‘<i>P.S</i>. - I return the money, having no use for the same.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Baruch did not obtain any very definite information from Marshall +about Clara. He was told that she had a sister; that they were +both of them gentlewomen; that their mother and father were dead; that +they were great readers, and that they did not go to church nor chapel, +but that they both went sometimes to hear a certain Mr A. J. Scott lecture. +He was once assistant minister to Irving, but was now heretical, and +had a congregation of his own creating at Woolwich.</p> +<p>Baruch called at the shop and found Clara once more alone. +The book was packed up and had being lying ready for him for two or +three days. He wanted to speak, but hardly knew how to begin. +He looked idly round the shelves, taking down one volume after another, +and at last he said, -</p> +<p>‘I suppose nobody but myself has ever asked for a copy of Robinson?’</p> +<p>‘Not since I have been here.’</p> +<p>‘I do not wonder at it; he printed only two hundred and fifty; +he gave away five-and-twenty, and I am sure nearly two hundred were +sold as wastepaper.’</p> +<p>‘He is a friend of yours?’</p> +<p>‘He was a friend; he is dead; he was an usher in a private +school, although you might have supposed, from the title selected, that +he was a clerk. I told him it was useless to publish, and his +publishers told him the same thing.’</p> +<p>‘I should have thought that some notice would have been taken +of him; he is so evidently worth it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, but although he was original and reflective, he had no +particular talent. His excellence lay in criticism and observation, +often profound, on what came to him every day, and he was valueless +in the literary market. A talent of some kind is necessary to +genius if it is to be heard. So he died utterly unrecognised, +save by one or two personal friends who loved him dearly. He was +peculiar in the depth and intimacy of his friendships. Few men +understand the meaning of the word friendship. They consort with +certain companions and perhaps very earnestly admire them, because they +possess intellectual gifts, but of friendship, such as we two, Morris +and I (for that was his real name) understood it, they know nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Do you believe, that the good does not necessarily survive?’</p> +<p>‘Yes and no; I believe that power every moment, so far as our +eyes can follow it, is utterly lost. I have had one or two friends +whom the world has never known and never will know, who have more in +them than is to be found in many an English classic. I could take +you to a little dissenting chapel not very far from Holborn where you +would hear a young Welshman, with no education beyond that provided +by a Welsh denominational college, who is a perfect orator and whose +depth of insight is hardly to be matched, save by Thomas À Kempis, +whom he much resembles. When he dies he will be forgotten in a +dozen years. Besides, it is surely plain enough to everybody that +there are thousands of men and women within a mile of us, apathetic +and obscure, who, if, an object worthy of them had been presented to +them, would have shown themselves capable of enthusiasm and heroism. +Huge volumes of human energy are apparently annihilated.’</p> +<p>‘It is very shocking, worse to me than the thought of the earthquake +or the pestilence.’</p> +<p>‘I said “yes and no” and there is another side. +The universe is so wonderful, so intricate, that it is impossible to +trace the transformation of its forces, and when they seem to disappear +the disappearance may be an illusion. Moreover, “waste” +is a word which is applicable only to finite resources. If the +resources are infinite it has no meaning.’</p> +<p>Two customers came in and Baruch was obliged to leave. When +he came to reflect, he was surprised to find not only how much he had +said, but what he had said. He was usually reserved, and with +strangers he adhered to the weather or to passing events. He had +spoken, however, to this young woman as if they had been acquainted +for years. Clara, too, was surprised. She always cut short +attempts at conversation in the shop. Frequently she answered +questions and receipted and returned bills without looking in the faces +of the people who spoke to her or offered her the money. But to +this foreigner, or Jew, she had disclosed something she felt. +She was rather abashed, but presently her employer, Mr Barnes, returned +and somewhat relieved her.</p> +<p>‘The gentleman who bought <i>After Office Hours</i> came for +it while you were out?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! what, Cohen? Good fellow Cohen is; he it was who +recommended you to me. He is brother-in-law to your landlord.’ +Clara was comforted; he was not a mere ‘casual,’ as Mr Barnes +called his chance customers.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>About a fortnight afterwards, on a Sunday afternoon, Cohen went to +the Marshalls’. He had called there once or twice since +his mother-in-law came to London, but had seen nothing of the lodgers. +It was just about tea-time, but unfortunately Marshall and his wife +had gone out. Mrs Caffyn insisted that Cohen should stay, but +Madge could not be persuaded to come downstairs, and Baruch, Mrs Caffyn +and Clara had tea by themselves. Baruch asked Mrs Caffyn if she +could endure London after living for so long in the country.</p> +<p>‘Ah! my dear boy, I have to like it.’</p> +<p>‘No, you haven’t; what you mean is that, whether you +like it, or whether you do not, you have to put up with it.’</p> +<p>‘No, I don’t mean that. Miss Hopgood, Cohen and +me, we are the best of friends, but whenever he comes here, he allus +begins to argue with me. Howsomever, arguing isn’t everything, +is it, my dear? There’s some things, after all, as I can +do and he can’t, but he’s just wrong here in his arguing +that wasn’t what I meant. I meant what I said, as I had +to like it.’</p> +<p>‘How can you like it if you don’t?’</p> +<p>‘How can I? That shows you’re a man and not a woman. +Jess like you men. <i>You’d</i> do what you didn’t +like, I know, for you’re a good sort - and everybody would know +you didn’t like it - but what would be the use of me a-livin’ +in a house if I didn’t like it? - with my daughter and these dear, +young women? If it comes to livin’, you’d ten thousand +times better say at once as you hate bein’ where you are than +go about all day long, as if you was a blessed saint and put upon.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn twitched at her gown and pulled it down over her knees +and brushed the crumbs off with energy. She continued, ‘I +can’t abide people who everlastin’ make believe they are +put upon. Suppose I were allus a-hankering every foggy day after +Great Oakhurst, and yet a-tellin’ my daughter as I knew my place +was here; if I was she, I should wish my mother at Jericho.’</p> +<p>‘Then you really prefer London to Great Oakhurst?’ said +Clara.</p> +<p>‘Why, my dear, of course I do. Don’t you think +it’s pleasanter being here with you and your sister and that precious +little creature, and my daughter, than down in that dead-alive place? +Not that I don’t miss my walk sometimes into Darkin; you remember +that way as I took you once, Baruch, across the hill, and we went over +Ranmore Common and I showed you Camilla Lacy, and you said as you knew +a woman who wrote books who once lived there? You remember them +beech-woods? Ah, it was one October! Weren’t they +a colour - weren’t they lovely?’</p> +<p>Baruch remembered them well enough. Who that had ever seen +them could forget them?</p> +<p>‘And it was I as took you! You wouldn’t think it, +my dear, though he’s always a-arguin’, I do believe he’d +love to go that walk again, even with an old woman, and see them heavenly +beeches. But, Lord, how I do talk, and you’ve neither of +you got any tea.’</p> +<p>‘Have you lived long in London, Miss Hopgood?’ inquired +Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Not very long.’</p> +<p>‘Do you feel the change?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say I do not.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose, however, you have brought yourself to believe in +Mrs Caffyn’s philosophy?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say that, but I may say that I am scarcely strong +enough for mere endurance, and I therefore always endeavour to find +something agreeable in circumstances from which there is no escape.’</p> +<p>The recognition of the One in the Many had as great a charm for Baruch +as it had for Socrates, and Clara spoke with the ease of a person whose +habit it was to deal with principles and generalisations.</p> +<p>‘Yes, and mere toleration, to say nothing of opposition, at +least so far as persons are concerned, is seldom necessary. It +is generally thought that what is called dramatic power is a poetic +gift, but it is really an indispensable virtue to all of us if we are +to be happy.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn did not take much interest in abstract statements. +‘You remember,’ she said, turning to Baruch, ‘that +man Chorley as has the big farm on the left-hand side just afore you +come to the common? He wasn’t a Surrey man: he came out +of the shires.’</p> +<p>‘Very well.’</p> +<p>‘He’s married that Skelton girl; married her the week +afore I left. There isn’t no love lost there, but the girl’s +father said he’d murder him if he didn’t, and so it come +off. How she ever brought herself to it gets over me. She +has that big farm-house, and he’s made a fine drawing-room out +of the livin’ room on the left-hand side as you go in, and put +a new grate in the kitchen and turned that into the livin’ room, +and they does the cooking in the back kitchen, but for all that, if +I’d been her, I’d never have seen his face no more, and +I’d have packed off to Australia.’</p> +<p>‘Does anybody go near them?’</p> +<p>‘Near them! of course they do, and, as true as I’m a-sittin’ +here, our parson, who married them, went to the breakfast. It +isn’t Chorley as I blame so much; he’s a poor, snivellin’ +creature, and he was frightened, but it’s the girl. She +doesn’t care for him no more than me, and then again, although, +as I tell you, he’s such a poor creature, he’s awful cruel +and mean, and she knows it. But what was I a-goin’ to say? +Never shall I forget that wedding. You know as it’s a short +cut to the church across the farmyard at the back of my house. +The parson, he was rather late - I suppose he’d been giving himself +a finishin’ touch - and, as it had been very dry weather, he went +across the straw and stuff just at the edge like of the yard. +There was a pig under the straw - pigs, my dear,’ turning to Clara, +‘nuzzle under the straw so as you can’t see them. +Just as he came to this pig it started up and upset him, and he fell +and straddled across its back, and the Lord have mercy on me if it didn’t +carry him at an awful rate, as if he was a jockey at Epsom races, till +it come to a puddle of dung water, and then down he plumped in it. +You never see’d a man in such a pickle! I heer’d the +pig a-squeakin’ like mad, and I ran to the door, and I called +out to him, and I says, “Mr Ormiston, won’t you come in +here?” and though, as you know, he allus hated me, he had to come. +Mussy on us, how he did stink, and he saw me turn up my nose, and he +was wild with rage, and he called the pig a filthy beast. I says +to him as that was the pig’s way and the pig didn’t know +who it was who was a-ridin’ it, and I took his coat off and wiped +his stockings, and sent to the rectory for another coat, and he crept +up under the hedge to his garden, and went home, and the people at church +had to wait for an hour. I was glad I was goin’ away from +Great Oakhurst, for he never would have forgiven me.’</p> +<p>There was a ring at the front door bell, and Clara went to see who +was there. It was a runaway ring, but she took the opportunity +of going upstairs to Madge.</p> +<p>‘She has a sister?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Yes, and I may just as well tell you about her now - leastways +what I know - and I believe as I know pretty near everything about her. +You’ll have to be told if they stay here. She was engaged +to be married, and how it came about with a girl like that is a bit +beyond me, anyhow, there’s a child, and the father’s a good +sort by what I can make out, but she won’t have anything more +to do with him.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean by “a girl like that.”’</p> +<p>‘She isn’t one of them as goes wrong; she can talk German +and reads books.’</p> +<p>‘Did he desert her?’</p> +<p>‘No, that’s just it. She loves me, although I say +it, as if I was her mother, and yet I’m just as much in the dark +as I was the first day I saw her as to why she left that man.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron.</p> +<p>‘It’s gospel truth as I never took to anybody as I’ve +took to her.’</p> +<p>After Baruch had gone, Clara returned.</p> +<p>‘He’s a curious creature, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, +‘as good as gold, but he’s too solemn by half. It +would do him a world of good if he’d somebody with him who’d +make him laugh more. He <i>can</i> laugh, for I’ve seen +him forced to get up and hold his sides, but he never makes no noise. +He’s a Jew, and they say as them as crucified our blessed Lord +never laugh proper.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Baruch was now in love. He had fallen in love with Clara suddenly +and totally. His tendency to reflectiveness did not diminish his +passion: it rather augmented it. The men and women whose thoughts +are here and there continually are not the people to feel the full force +of love. Those who do feel it are those who are accustomed to +think of one thing at a time, and to think upon it for a long time. +‘No man,’ said Baruch once, ‘can love a woman unless +he loves God.’ ‘I should say,’ smilingly replied +the Gentile, ‘that no man can love God unless he loves a woman.’ +‘I am right,’ said Baruch, ‘and so are you.’</p> +<p>But Baruch looked in the glass: his hair, jet black when he was a +youth, was marked with grey, and once more the thought came to him - +this time with peculiar force - that he could not now expect a woman +to love him as she had a right to demand that he should love, and that +he must be silent. He was obliged to call upon Barnes in about +a fortnight’s time. He still read Hebrew, and he had seen +in the shop a copy of the Hebrew translation of the <i>Moreh Nevochim</i> +of Maimonides, which he greatly coveted, but could not afford to buy. +Like every true book-lover, he could not make up his mind when he wished +for a book which was beyond his means that he ought once for all to +renounce it, and he was guilty of subterfuges quite unworthy of such +a reasonable creature in order to delude himself into the belief that +he might yield. For example, he wanted a new overcoat badly, but +determined it was more prudent to wait, and a week afterwards very nearly +came to the conclusion that as he had not ordered the coat he had actually +accumulated a fund from which the <i>Moreh Nevochim</i> might be purchased. +When he came to the shop he saw Barnes was there, and he persuaded himself +he should have a quieter moment or two with the precious volume when +Clara was alone. Barnes, of course, gossiped with everybody.</p> +<p>He therefore called again in the evening, about half an hour before +closing time, and found that Barnes had gone home. Clara was busy +with a catalogue, the proof of which she was particularly anxious to +send to the printer that night. He did not disturb her, but took +down the Maimonides, and for a few moments was lost in revolving the +doctrine, afterwards repeated and proved by a greater than Maimonides, +that the will and power of God are co-extensive: that there is nothing +which might be and is not. It was familiar to Baruch, but like +all ideas of that quality and magnitude - and there are not many of +them - it was always new and affected him like a starry night, seen +hundreds of times, yet for ever infinite and original.</p> +<p>But was it Maimonides which kept him till the porter began to put +up the shutters? Was he pondering exclusively upon God as the +folio lay open before him? He did think about Him, but whether +he would have thought about Him for nearly twenty minutes if Clara had +not been there is another matter.</p> +<p>‘Do you walk home alone?’ he said as she gave the proof +to the boy who stood waiting.</p> +<p>‘Yes, always.’</p> +<p>‘I am going to see Marshall to-night, but I must go to Newman +Street first. I shall be glad to walk with you, if you do not +mind diverging a little.’</p> +<p>She consented and they went along Oxford Street without speaking, +the roar of the carriages and waggons preventing a word.</p> +<p>They turned, however, into Bloomsbury, and were able to hear one +another. He had much to say and he could not begin to say it. +There was a great mass of something to be communicated pent up within +him, and he would have liked to pour it all out before her at once. +It is just at such times that we often take up as a means of expression +and relief that which is absurdly inexpressive and irrelevant.</p> +<p>‘I have not seen your sister yet; I hope I may see her this +evening.’</p> +<p>‘I hope you may, but she frequently suffers from headache and +prefers to be alone.’</p> +<p>‘How do you like Mr Barnes?’</p> +<p>The answer is not worth recording, nor is any question or answer +which was asked or returned for the next quarter of an hour worth recording, +although they were so interesting then. When they were crossing +Bedford Square on their return Clara happened to say amongst other commonplaces, +-</p> +<p>‘What a relief a quiet space in London is.’</p> +<p>‘I do not mind the crowd if I am by myself.’</p> +<p>‘I do not like crowds; I dislike even the word, and dislike +“the masses” still more. I do not want to think of +human beings as if they were a cloud of dust, and as if each atom had +no separate importance. London is often horrible to me for that +reason. In the country it was not quite so bad.’</p> +<p>‘That is an illusion,’ said Baruch after a moment’s +pause.</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand you, but if it be an illusion it +is very painful. In London human beings seem the commonest, cheapest +things in the world, and I am one of them. I went with Mr Marshall +not long ago to a Free Trade Meeting, and more than two thousand people +were present. Everybody told me it was magnificent, but it made +me very sad.’ She was going on, but she stopped. How +was it, she thought again, that she could be so communicative? +How was it? How is it that sometimes a stranger crosses our path, +with whom, before we have known him for more than an hour, we have no +secrets? An hour? we have actually known him for centuries.</p> +<p>She could not understand it, and she felt as if she had been inconsistent +with her constant professions of wariness in self-revelation.</p> +<p>‘It is an illusion, nevertheless - an illusion of the senses. +It is difficult to make what I mean clear, because insight is not possible +beyond a certain point, and clearness does not come until penetration +is complete and what we acquire is brought into a line with other acquisitions. +It constantly happens that we are arrested short of this point, but +it would be wrong to suppose that our conclusions, if we may call them +so, are of no value.’</p> +<p>She was silent, and he did not go on. At last he said, -</p> +<p>‘The illusion lies in supposing that number, quantity and terms +of that kind are applicable to any other than sensuous objects, but +I cannot go further, at least not now. After all, it is possible +here in London for one atom to be of eternal importance to another.’</p> +<p>They had gone quite round Bedford Square without entering Great Russell +Street, which was the way eastwards. A drunken man was holding +on by the railings of the Square. He had apparently been hesitating +for some time whether he could reach the road, and, just as Baruch and +Clara came up to him, he made a lurch towards it, and nearly fell over +them. Clara instinctively seized Baruch’s arm in order to +avoid the poor, staggering mortal; they went once more to the right, +and began to complete another circuit. Somehow her arm had been +drawn into Baruch’s, and there it remained.</p> +<p>‘Have you any friends in London?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘There are Mrs Caffyn, her son and daughter, and there is Mr +A. J. Scott. He was a friend of my father.’</p> +<p>‘You mean the Mr Scott who was Irving’s assistant?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘An addition - ’ he was about to say, ‘an additional +bond’ but he corrected himself. ‘A bond between us; +I know Mr Scott.’</p> +<p>‘Do you really? I suppose you know many interesting people +in London, as you are in his circle.’</p> +<p>‘Very few; weeks, months have passed since anybody has said +as much to me as you have.’</p> +<p>His voice quivered a little, for he was trembling with an emotion +quite inexplicable by mere intellectual relationship. Something +came through Clara’s glove as her hand rested on his wrist which +ran through every nerve and sent the blood into his head.</p> +<p>Clara felt his excitement and dreaded lest he should say something +to which she could give no answer, and when they came opposite Great +Russell Street, she withdrew her arm from his, and began to cross to +the opposite pavement. She turned the conversation towards some +indifferent subject, and in a few minutes they were at Great Ormond +Street. Baruch would not go in as he had intended; he thought +it was about to rain, and he was late. As he went along he became +calmer, and when he was fairly indoors he had passed into a despair +entirely inconsistent - superficially - with the philosopher Baruch, +as inconsistent as the irrational behaviour in Bedford Square. +He could well enough interpret, so he believed, Miss Hopgood’s +suppression of him. Ass that he was not to see what he ought to +have known so well, that he was playing the fool to her; he, with a +grown-up son, to pretend to romance with a girl! At that moment +she might be mocking him, or, if she was too good for mockery, she might +be contriving to avoid or to quench him. The next time he met +her, he would be made to understand that he was <i>pitied</i>, and perhaps +he would then learn the name of the youth who was his rival, and had +won her. He would often meet her, no doubt, but of what value +would anything he could say be to her. She could not be expected +to make fine distinctions, and there was a class of elderly men, to +which of course he would be assigned, but the thought was too horrible.</p> +<p>Perhaps his love for Clara might be genuine; perhaps it was not. +He had hoped that as he grew older he might be able really to <i>see</i> +a woman, but he was once more like one of the possessed. It was +not Clara Hopgood who was before him, it was hair, lips, eyes, just +as it was twenty years ago, just as it was with the commonest shop-boy +he met, who had escaped from the counter, and was waiting at an area +gate. It was terrible to him to find that he had so nearly lost +his self-control, but upon this point he was unjust to himself, for +we are often more distinctly aware of the strength of the temptation +than of the authority within us, which falteringly, but decisively, +enables us at last to resist it.</p> +<p>Then he fell to meditating how little his studies had done for him. +What was the use of them? They had not made him any stronger, +and he was no better able than other people to resist temptation. +After twenty years continuous labour he found himself capable of the +vulgarest, coarsest faults and failings from which the remotest skiey +influence in his begetting might have saved him.</p> +<p>Clara was not as Baruch. No such storm as that which had darkened +and disheartened him could pass over her, but she could love, perhaps +better than he, and she began to love him. It was very natural +to a woman such as Clara, for she had met a man who had said to her +that what she believed was really of some worth. Her father and +mother had been very dear to her; her sister was very dear to her, but +she had never received any such recognition as that which had now been +offered to her: her own self had never been returned to her with such +honour. She thought, too - why should she not think it? - of the +future, of the release from her dreary occupation, of a happy home with +independence, and she thought of the children that might be. She +lay down without any misgiving. She was sure he was in love with +her; she did not know much of him, certainly, in the usual meaning of +the word, but she knew enough. She would like to find out more +of his history; perhaps without exciting suspicion she might obtain +it from Mrs Caffyn.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mr Frank Palmer was back again in England. He was much distressed +when he received that last letter from Mrs Caffyn, and discovered that +Madge’s resolution not to write remained unshaken. He was +really distressed, but he was not the man upon whom an event, however +deeply felt at the time, could score a furrow which could not be obliterated. +If he had been a dramatic personage, what had happened to him would +have been the second act leading to a fifth, in which the Fates would +have appeared, but life seldom arranges itself in proper poetic form. +A man determines that he must marry; he makes the shop-girl an allowance, +never sees her or her child again, transforms himself into a model husband, +is beloved by his wife and family; the woman whom he kissed as he will +never kiss his lawful partner, withdraws completely, and nothing happens +to him.</p> +<p>Frank was sure he could never love anybody as he had loved Madge, +nor could he cut indifferently that other cord which bound him to her. +Nobody in society expects the same paternal love for the offspring of +a housemaid or a sempstress as for the child of the stockbroker’s +or brewer’s daughter, and nobody expects the same obligations, +but Frank was not a society youth, and Madge was his equal. A +score of times, when his fancy roved, the rope checked him as suddenly +as if it were the lasso of a South American Gaucho. But what could +he do? that was the point. There were one or two things which +he could have done, perhaps, and one or two things which he could not +have done if he had been made of different stuff; but there was nothing +more to be done which Frank Palmer could do. After all, it was +better that Madge should be the child’s mother than that it should +belong to some peasant. At least it would be properly educated. +As to money, Mrs Caffyn had told him expressly that she did not want +it. That might be nothing but pride, and he resolved, without +very clearly seeing how, and without troubling himself for the moment +as to details, that Madge should be entirely and handsomely supported +by him. Meanwhile it was of great importance that he should behave +in such a manner as to raise no suspicion. He did not particularly +care for some time after his return from Germany to go out to the musical +parties to which he was constantly invited, but he went as a duty, and +wherever he went he met his charming cousin. They always sang +together; they had easy opportunities of practising together, and Frank, +although nothing definite was said to him, soon found that his family +and hers considered him destined for her. He could not retreat, +and there was no surprise manifested by anybody when it was rumoured +that they were engaged. His story may as well be finished at once. +He and Miss Cecilia Morland were married. A few days before the +wedding, when some legal arrangements and settlements were necessary, +Frank made one last effort to secure an income for Madge, but it failed. +Mrs Caffyn met him by appointment, but he could not persuade her even +to be the bearer of a message to Madge. He then determined to +confess his fears. To his great relief Mrs Caffyn of her own accord +assured him that he never need dread any disturbance or betrayal.</p> +<p>‘There are three of us,’ she said, ‘as knows you +- Miss Madge, Miss Clara and myself - and, as far as you are concerned, +we are dead and buried. I can’t say as I was altogether +of Miss Madge’s way of looking at it at first, and I thought it +ought to have been different, though I believe now as she’s right, +but,’ and the old woman suddenly fired up as if some bolt from +heaven had kindled her, ‘I pity you, sir - you, sir, I say - more +nor I do her. You little know what you’ve lost, the blessedest, +sweetest, ah, and the cleverest creature, too, as ever I set eyes on.’</p> +<p>‘But, Mrs Caffyn,’ said Frank, with much emotion, ‘it +was not I who left her, you know it was not, and, and even - ’</p> +<p>The word ‘now’ was coming, but it did not come.</p> +<p>‘Ah,’ said Mrs Caffyn, with something like scorn, ‘<i>I</i> +know, yes, I do know. It was she, you needn’t tell me that, +but, God-a-mighty in heaven, if I’d been you, I’d have laid +myself on the ground afore her, I’d have tore my heart out for +her, and I’d have said, “No other woman in this world but +you” - but there, what a fool I am! Goodbye, Mr Palmer.’</p> +<p>She marched away, leaving Frank very miserable, and, as he imagined, +unsettled, but he was not so. The fit lasted all day, but when +he was walking home that evening, he met a poor friend whose wife was +dying.</p> +<p>‘I am so grieved,’ said Frank ‘to hear of your +trouble - no hope?’</p> +<p>‘None, I am afraid.’</p> +<p>‘It is very dreadful.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is hard to bear, but to what is inevitable we must +submit.’</p> +<p>This new phrase struck Frank very much, and it seemed very philosophic +to him, a maxim, for guidance through life. It did not strike +him that it was generally either a platitude or an excuse for weakness, +and that a nobler duty is to find out what is inevitable and what is +not, to declare boldly that what the world oftentimes affirms to be +inevitable is really evitable, and heroically to set about making it +so. Even if revolt be perfectly useless, we are not particularly +drawn to a man who prostrates himself too soon and is incapable of a +little cursing.</p> +<p>As it was impossible to provide for Madge and the child now, Frank +considered whether he could not do something for them in the will which +he had to make before his marriage. He might help his daughter +if he could not help the mother.</p> +<p>But his wife would perhaps survive him, and the discovery would cause +her and her children much misery; it would damage his character with +them and inflict positive moral mischief. The will, therefore, +did not mention Madge, and it was not necessary to tell his secret to +his solicitor.</p> +<p>The wedding took place amidst much rejoicing; everybody thought the +couple were most delightfully matched; the presents were magnificent; +the happy pair went to Switzerland, came back and settled in one of +the smaller of the old, red brick houses in Stoke Newington, with a +lawn in front, always shaved and trimmed to the last degree of smoothness +and accuracy, with paths on whose gravel not the smallest weed was ever +seen, and with a hot-house that provided the most luscious black grapes. +There was a grand piano in the drawing-room, and Frank and Cecilia became +more musical than ever, and Waltham Lodge was the headquarters of a +little amateur orchestra which practised Mozart and Haydn, and gave +local concerts. A twelvemonth after the marriage a son was born +and Frank’s father increased Frank’s share in the business. +Mr Palmer had long ceased to take any interest in the Hopgoods. +He considered that Madge had treated Frank shamefully in jilting him, +but was convinced that he was fortunate in his escape. It was +clear that she was unstable; she probably threw him overboard for somebody +more attractive, and she was not the woman to be a wife to his son.</p> +<p>One day Cecilia was turning out some drawers belonging to her husband, +and she found a dainty little slipper wrapped up in white tissue paper. +She looked at it for a long time, wondering to whom it could have belonged, +and had half a mind to announce her discovery to Frank, but she was +a wise woman and forbore. It lay underneath some neckties which +were not now worn, two or three silk pocket handkerchiefs also discarded, +and some manuscript books containing school themes. She placed +them on the top of the drawers as if they had all been taken out in +a lump and the slipper was at the bottom.</p> +<p>‘Frank my dear,’ she said after dinner, ‘I emptied +this morning one of the drawers in the attic. I wish you would +look over the things and decide what you wish to keep. I have +not examined them, but they seem to be mostly rubbish.’</p> +<p>He went upstairs after he had smoked his cigar and read his paper. +There was the slipper! It all came back to him, that never-to-be-forgotten +night, when she rebuked him for the folly of kissing her foot, and he +begged the slipper and determined to preserve it for ever, and thought +how delightful it would be to take it out and look at it when he was +an old man. Even now he did not like to destroy it, but Cecilia +might have seen it and might ask him what he had done with it, and what +could he say? Finally he decided to burn it. There was no +fire, however, in the room, and while he stood meditating, Cecilia called +him. He replaced the slipper in the drawer. He could not +return that evening, but he intended to go back the next morning, take +the little parcel away in his pocket and burn it at his office. +At breakfast some letters came which put everything else out of mind. +The first thing he did that evening was to revisit the garret, but the +slipper had gone. Cecilia had been there and had found it carefully +folded up in the drawer. She pulled it out, snipped and tore it +into fifty pieces, carried them downstairs, threw them on the dining-room +fire, sat down before it, poking them further and further into the flames, +and watched them till every vestige had vanished. Frank did not +like to make any inquiries; Cecilia made none, and thence-forward no +trace existed at Waltham Lodge of Madge Hopgood.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Baruch went neither to Barnes’s shop nor to the Marshalls for +nearly a month. One Sunday morning he was poring over the <i>Moreh +Nevochim</i>, for it had proved too powerful a temptation for him, and +he fell upon the theorem that without God the Universe could not continue +to exist, for God is its Form. It was one of those sayings which +may be nothing or much to the reader. Whether it be nothing or +much depends upon the quality of his mind.</p> +<p>There was certainly nothing in it particularly adapted to Baruch’s +condition at that moment, but an antidote may be none the less efficacious +because it is not direct. It removed him to another region. +It was like the sight and sound of the sea to the man who has been in +trouble in an inland city. His self-confidence was restored, for +he to whom an idea is revealed becomes the idea, and is no longer personal +and consequently poor.</p> +<p>His room seemed too small for him; he shut his book and went to Great +Ormond Street. He found there Marshall, Mrs Caffyn, Clara and +a friend of Marshall’s named Dennis.</p> +<p>‘Where is your wife?’ said Baruch to Marshall.</p> +<p>‘Gone with Miss Madge to the Catholic chapel to hear a mass +of Mozart’s.’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs Caffyn. ‘I tell them they’ll +turn Papists if they do not mind. They are always going to that +place, and there’s no knowing, so I’ve hear’d, what +them priests can do. They aren’t like our parsons. +Catch that man at Great Oakhurst a-turnin’ anybody.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose,’ said Baruch to Clara, ‘it is the music +takes your sister there?’</p> +<p>‘Mainly, I believe, but perhaps not entirely.’</p> +<p>‘What other attraction can there be?’</p> +<p>‘I am not in the least disposed to become a convert. +Once for all, Catholicism is incredible and that is sufficient, but +there is much in its ritual which suits me. There is no such intrusion +of the person of the minister as there is in the Church of England, +and still worse amongst dissenters. In the Catholic service the +priest is nothing; it is his office which is everything; he is a mere +means of communication. The mass, in so far as it proclaims that +miracle is not dead, is also very impressive to me.’</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand you,’ said Marshall, ‘but +if you once chuck your reason overboard, you may just as well be Catholic +as Protestant. Nothing can be more ridiculous than the Protestant +objection, on the ground of absurdity, to the story of the saint walking +about with his head under his arm.’</p> +<p>The tea things had been cleared away, and Marshall was smoking. +Both he and Dennis were Chartists, and Baruch had interrupted a debate +upon a speech delivered at a Chartist meeting that morning by Henry +Vincent.</p> +<p>Frederick Dennis was about thirty, tall and rather loose-limbed. +He wore loose clothes, his neck-cloth was tied in a big, loose knot, +his feet were large and his boots were heavy. His face was quite +smooth, and his hair, which was very thick and light brown, fell across +his forehead in a heavy wave with just two complete undulations in it +from the parting at the side to the opposite ear. It had a trick +of tumbling over his eyes, so that his fingers were continually passed +through it to brush it away. He was a wood engraver, or, as he +preferred to call himself, an artist, but he also wrote for the newspapers, +and had been a contributor to the <i>Northern Star</i>. He was +well brought up and was intended for the University, but he did not +stick to his Latin and Greek, and as he showed some talent for drawing +he was permitted to follow his bent. His work, however, was not +of first-rate quality, and consequently orders were not abundant. +This was the reason why he had turned to literature. When he had +any books to illustrate he lived upon what they brought him, and when +there were no books he renewed his acquaintance with politics. +If books and newspapers both failed, he subsisted on a little money +which had been left him, stayed with friends as long as he could, and +amused himself by writing verses which showed much command over rhyme.</p> +<p>‘I cannot stand Vincent,’ said Marshall, ‘he is +too flowery for me, and he does not belong to the people. He is +middle-class to the backbone.’</p> +<p>‘He is deficient in ideas,’ said Dennis.</p> +<p>‘It is odd,’ continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, ‘that +your race never takes any interest in politics.’</p> +<p>‘My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no national +home. It took an interest in politics when it was in its own country, +and produced some rather remarkable political writing.’</p> +<p>‘But why do you care so little for what is going on now?’</p> +<p>‘I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, and, +furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish all you expect.’</p> +<p>‘I know what is coming’ - Marshall took the pipe out +of his mouth and spoke with perceptible sarcasm - ‘the inefficiency +of merely external remedies, the folly of any attempt at improvement +which does not begin with the improvement of individual character, and +that those to whom we intend to give power are no better than those +from whom we intend to take it away. All very well, Mr Cohen. +My answer is that at the present moment the stockingers in Leicester +are earning four shillings and sixpence a week. It is not a question +whether they are better or worse than their rulers. They want +something to eat, they have nothing, and their masters have more than +they can eat.’</p> +<p>‘Apart altogether from purely material reasons,’ said +Dennis, ‘we have rights; we are born into this planet without +our consent, and, therefore, we may make certain demands.’</p> +<p>‘Do you not think,’ said Clara, ‘that the repeal +of the corn laws will help you?’</p> +<p>Dennis smiled and was about to reply, but Marshall broke out savagely, +-</p> +<p>‘Repeal of the corn laws is a contemptible device of manufacturing +selfishness. It means low wages. Do you suppose the great +Manchester cotton lords care one straw for their hands? Not they! +They will face a revolution for repeal because it will enable them to +grind an extra profit out of us.’</p> +<p>‘I agree with you entirely,’ said Dennis, turning to +Clara, ‘that a tax upon food is wrong; it is wrong in the abstract. +The notion of taxing bread, the fruit of the earth, is most repulsive; +but the point is - what is our policy to be? If a certain end +is to be achieved, we must neglect subordinate ends, and, at times, +even contradict what our own principles would appear to dictate. +That is the secret of successful leadership.’</p> +<p>He took up the poker and stirred the fire.</p> +<p>‘That will do, Dennis,’ said Marshall, who was evidently +fidgety. ‘The room is rather warm. There’s nothing +in Vincent which irritates me more than those bits of poetry with which +he winds up.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“God made the man - man made the slave,”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and all that stuff. If God made the man, God made the slave. +I know what Vincent’s little game is, and it is the same game +with all his set. They want to keep Chartism religious, but we +shall see. Let us once get the six points, and the Established +Church will go, and we shall have secular education, and in a generation +there will not be one superstition left.’</p> +<p>‘Theological superstition, you mean?’ said Clara.</p> +<p>‘Yes, of course, what others are there worth notice?’</p> +<p>‘A few. The superstition of the ordinary newspaper reader +is just as profound, and the tyranny of the majority may be just as +injurious as the superstition of a Spanish peasant, or the tyranny of +the Inquisition.’</p> +<p>‘Newspapers will not burn people as the priests did and would +do again if they had the power, and they do not insult us with fables +and a hell and a heaven.’</p> +<p>‘I maintain,’ said Clara with emphasis, ‘that if +a man declines to examine, and takes for granted what a party leader +or a newspaper tells him, he has no case against the man who declines +to examine, or takes for granted what the priest tells him. Besides, +although, as you know, I am not a convert myself, I do lose a little +patience when I hear it preached as a gospel to every poor conceited +creature who goes to your Sunday evening atheist lecture, that he is +to believe nothing on one particular subject which his own precious +intellect cannot verify, and the next morning he finds it to be his +duty to swallow wholesale anything you please to put into his mouth. +As to the tyranny, the day may come, and I believe is approaching, when +the majority will be found to be more dangerous than any ecclesiastical +establishment which ever existed.’</p> +<p>Baruch’s lips moved, but he was silent. He was not strong +in argument. He was thinking about Marshall’s triumphant +inquiry whether God is not responsible for slavery. He would have +liked to say something on that subject, but he had nothing ready.</p> +<p>‘Practical people,’ said Dennis, who had not quite recovered +from the rebuke as to the warmth of the room, ‘are often most +unpractical and injudicious. Nothing can be more unwise than to +mix up politics and religion. If you <i>do</i>,’ Dennis +waved his hand, ‘you will have all the religious people against +you. My friend Marshall, Miss Hopgood, is under the illusion that +the Church in this country is tottering to its fall. Now, although +I myself belong to no sect, I do not share his illusion; nay, more, +I am not sure’ - Mr Dennis spoke slowly, rubbed his chin and looked +up at the ceiling - ‘I am not sure that there is not something +to be said in favour of State endowment - at least, in a country like +Ireland.’</p> +<p>‘Come along, Dennis, we shall be late,’ said Marshall, +and the two forthwith took their departure in order to attend another +meeting.</p> +<p>‘Much either of ’em knows about it,’ said Mrs Caffyn +when they had gone. ‘There’s Marshall getting two +pounds a week reg’lar, and goes on talking about people at Leicester, +and he has never been in Leicester in his life; and, as for that Dennis, +he knows less than Marshall, for he does nothing but write for newspapers +and draw for picture-books, never nothing what you may call work, and +he does worrit me so whenever he begins about poor people that I can’t +sit still. <i>I</i> do know what the poor is, having lived at +Great Oakhurst all these years.’</p> +<p>‘You are not a Chartist, then?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Me - me a Chartist? No, I ain’t, and yet, maybe, +I’m something worse. What would be the use of giving them +poor creatures votes? Why, there isn’t one of them as wouldn’t +hold up his hand for anybody as would give him a shilling. Quite +right of ’em, too, for the one thing they have to think about +from morning to night is how to get a bit of something to fill their +bellies, and they won’t fill them by voting.’</p> +<p>‘But what would you do for them?’</p> +<p>‘Ah! that beats me! Hang somebody, but I don’t +know who it ought to be. There’s a family by the name of +Longwood, they live just on the slope of the hill nigh the Dower Farm, +and there’s nine of them, and the youngest when I left was a baby +six months old, and their living-room faces the road so that the north +wind blows in right under the door, and I’ve seen the snow lie +in heaps inside. As reg’lar as winter comes Longwood is +knocked off - no work. I’ve knowed them not have a bit of +meat for weeks together, and him a-loungin’ about at the corner +of the street. Wasn’t that enough to make him feel as if +somebody ought to be killed? And Marshall and Dennis say as the +proper thing to do is to give him a vote, and prove to him there was +never no Abraham nor Isaac, and that Jonah never was in a whale’s +belly, and that nobody had no business to have more children than he +could feed. And what goes on, and what must go on, inside such +a place as Longwood’s, with him and his wife, and with them boys +and gals all huddled together - But I’d better hold my tongue. +We’ll let the smoke out of this room, I think, and air it a little.’</p> +<p>She opened the window, and Baruch rose and went home.</p> +<p>Whenever Mrs Caffyn talked about the labourers at Great Oakhurst, +whom she knew so well, Clara always felt as if all her reading had been +a farce, and, indeed, if we come into close contact with actual life, +art, poetry and philosophy seem little better than trifling. When +the mist hangs over the heavy clay land in January, and men and women +shiver in the bitter cold and eat raw turnips, to indulge in fireside +ecstasies over the divine Plato or Shakespeare is surely not such a +virtue as we imagine it to be.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Baruch sat and mused before he went to bed. He had gone out +stirred by an idea, but it was already dead. Then he began to +think about Clara. Who was this Dennis who visited the Marshalls +and the Hopgoods? Oh! for an hour of his youth! Fifteen +years ago the word would have come unbidden if he had seen Clara, but +now, in place of the word, there was hesitation, shame. He must +make up his mind to renounce for ever. But, although this conclusion +had forced itself upon him overnight as inevitable, he could not resist +the temptation when he rose the next morning of plotting to meet Clara, +and he walked up and down the street opposite the shop door that evening +nearly a quarter of an hour, just before closing time, hoping that she +might come out and that he might have the opportunity of overtaking +her apparently by accident. At last, fearing he might miss her, +he went in and found she had a companion whom he instantly knew, before +any induction, to be her sister. Madge was not now the Madge whom +we knew at Fenmarket. She was thinner in the face and paler. +Nevertheless, she was not careless; she was even more particular in +her costume, but it was simpler. If anything, perhaps, she was +a little prouder. She was more attractive, certainly, than she +had ever been, although her face could not be said to be handsomer. +The slight prominence of the cheek-bone, the slight hollow underneath, +the loss of colour, were perhaps defects, but they said something which +had a meaning in it superior to that of the tint of the peach. +She had been reading a book while Clara was balancing her cash, and +she attempted to replace it. The shelf was a little too high, +and the volume fell upon the ground. It contained Shelley’s +<i>Revolt of Islam.</i></p> +<p>‘Have you read Shelley?’ said Baruch.</p> +<p>‘Every line - when I was much younger.’</p> +<p>‘Do you read him now?’</p> +<p>‘Not much. I was an enthusiast for him when I was nineteen, +but I find that his subject matter is rather thin, and his themes are +a little worn. He was entirely enslaved by the ideals of the French +Revolution. Take away what the French Revolution contributed to +his poetry, and there is not much left.’</p> +<p>‘As a man he is not very attractive to me.’</p> +<p>‘Nor to me; I never shall forgive his treatment of Harriet.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose he had ceased to love her, and he thought, therefore, +he was justified in leaving her.’</p> +<p>Madge turned and fixed her eyes, unobserved, on Baruch. He +was looking straight at the bookshelves. There was not, and, indeed, +how could there be, any reference to herself.</p> +<p>‘I should put it in this way,’ she said, ‘that +he thought he was justified in sacrificing a woman for the sake of an +<i>impulse</i>. Call this a defect or a crime - whichever you +like - it is repellent to me. It makes no difference to me to +know that he believed the impulse to be divine.’</p> +<p>‘I wish,’ interrupted Clara, ‘you two would choose +less exciting subjects of conversation; my totals will not come right.’</p> +<p>They were silent, and Baruch, affecting to study a Rollin’s +<i>Ancient History</i>, wondered, especially when he called to mind +Mrs Caffyn’s report, what this girl’s history could have +been. He presently recovered himself, and it occurred to him that +he ought to give some reason why he had called. Before, however, +he was able to offer any excuse, Clara closed her book.</p> +<p>‘Now, it is right,’ she said, ‘and I am ready.’</p> +<p>Just at that moment Barnes appeared, hot with hurrying.</p> +<p>‘Very sorry, Miss Hopgood, to ask you to stay for a few minutes. +I recollected after I left that the doctor particularly wanted those +books sent off to-night. I should not like to disappoint him. +I have been to the booking-office, and the van will be here in about +twenty minutes. If you will make out the invoice and check me, +I will pack them.’</p> +<p>‘I will be off,’ said Madge. ‘The shop will +be shut if I do not make haste.’</p> +<p>‘You are not going alone, are you?’ said Baruch. +‘May I not go with you, and cannot we both come back for your +sister?’</p> +<p>‘It is very kind of you.’</p> +<p>Clara looked up from her desk, watched them as they went out at the +door and, for a moment, seemed lost. Barnes turned round.</p> +<p>‘Now, Miss Hopgood.’ She started.</p> +<p>‘Yes, sir.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Fabricius</i>, <i>J. A. Bibliotheca Ecclesiastica +in qua continentur</i>.’</p> +<p>‘I need not put in the last three words.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, yes.’ Barnes never liked to be corrected +in a title. ‘There’s another <i>Fabricius Bibliotheca</i> +or <i>Bibliographia</i>. Go on - <i>Basili opera ad MSS. codices</i>, +3 vols.’</p> +<p>Clara silently made the entries a little more scholarly. In +a quarter of an hour the parcel was ready and Cohen returned.</p> +<p>‘Your sister would not allow me to wait. She met Mrs +Marshall; they said they should have something to carry, and that it +was not worth while to bring it here. I will walk with you, if +you will allow me. We may as well avoid Holborn.’</p> +<p>They turned into Gray’s Inn, and, when they were in comparative +quietude, he said, -</p> +<p>‘Any Chartist news?’ and then without waiting for an +answer, ‘By the way, who is your friend Dennis?’</p> +<p>‘He is no particular friend of mine. He is a wood-engraver, +and writes also, I believe, for the newspapers.’</p> +<p>‘He can talk as well as write.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, he can talk very well.’</p> +<p>‘Do you not think there was something unreal about what he +said?’</p> +<p>‘I do not believe he is actually insincere. I have noticed +that men who write or read much often appear somewhat shadowy.’</p> +<p>‘How do you account for it?’</p> +<p>‘What they say is not experience.’</p> +<p>‘I do not quite understand. A man may think much which +can never become an experience in your sense of the word, and be very +much in earnest with what he thinks; the thinking is an experience.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I suppose so, but it is what a person has gone through +which I like to hear. Poor Dennis has suffered much. You +are perhaps surprised, but it is true, and when he leaves politics alone +he is a different creature.’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid I must be very uninteresting to you?’</p> +<p>‘I did not mean that I care for nothing but my friend’s +aches and pains, but that I do not care for what he just takes up and +takes on.’</p> +<p>‘It is my misfortune that my subjects are not very - I was +about to say - human. Perhaps it is because I am a Jew.’</p> +<p>‘I do not know quite what you mean by your “subjects,” +but if you mean philosophy and religion, they are human.’</p> +<p>‘If they are, very few people like to hear anything about them. +Do you know, Miss Hopgood, I can never talk to anybody as I can to you.’</p> +<p>Clara made no reply. A husband was to be had for a look, for +a touch, a husband whom she could love, a husband who could give her +all her intellect demanded. A little house rose before her eyes +as if by Arabian enchantment; there was a bright fire on the hearth, +and there were children round it; without the look, the touch, there +would be solitude, silence and a childless old age, so much more to +be feared by a woman than by a man. Baruch paused, waiting for +her answer, and her tongue actually began to move with a reply, which +would have sent his arm round her, and made them one for ever, but it +did not come. Something fell and flashed before her like lightning +from a cloud overhead, divinely beautiful, but divinely terrible.</p> +<p>‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that I have to call in +Lamb’s Conduit Street to buy something for my sister. I +shall just be in time.’ Baruch went as far as Lamb’s +Conduit Street with her. He, too, would have determined his own +destiny if she had uttered the word, but the power to proceed without +it was wanting and he fell back. He left her at the door of the +shop. She bid him good-bye, obviously intending that he should +go no further with her, and he shook hands with her, taking her hand +again and shaking it again with a grasp which she knew well enough was +too fervent for mere friendship. He then wandered back once more +to his old room at Clerkenwell. The fire was dead, he stirred +it, the cinders fell through the grate and it dropped out all together. +He made no attempt to rekindle it, but sat staring at the black ashes, +not thinking, but dreaming. Thirty years more perhaps with no +change! The last chance that he could begin a new life had disappeared. +He cursed himself that nothing drove him out of himself with Marshall +and his fellowmen; that he was not Chartist nor revolutionary; but it +was impossible to create in himself enthusiasm for a cause. He +had tried before to become a patriot and had failed, and was conscious, +during the trial, that he was pretending to be something he was not +and could not be. There was nothing to be done but to pace the +straight road in front of him, which led nowhere, so far as he could +see.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A month afterwards Marshall announced that he intended to pay a visit.</p> +<p>‘I am going,’ he said, ‘to see Mazzini. Who +will go with me?’</p> +<p>Clara and Madge were both eager to accompany him. Mrs Caffyn +and Mrs Marshall chose to stay at home.</p> +<p>‘I shall ask Cohen to come with us,’ said Marshall. +‘He has never seen Mazzini and would like to know him.’ +Cohen accordingly called one Sunday evening, and the party went together +to a dull, dark, little house in a shabby street of small shops and +furnished apartments. When they knocked at Mazzini’s door +Marshall asked for Mr --- for, even in England, Mazzini had an assumed +name which was always used when inquiries were made for him. They +were shown upstairs into a rather mean room, and found there a man, +really about forty, but looking older. He had dark hair growing +away from his forehead, dark moustache, dark beard and a singularly +serious face. It was not the face of a conspirator, but that of +a saint, although without that just perceptible touch of silliness which +spoils the faces of most saints. It was the face of a saint of +the Reason, of a man who could be ecstatic for rational ideals, rarest +of all endowments. It was the face, too, of one who knew no fear, +or, if he knew it, could crush it. He was once concealed by a +poor woman whose house was surrounded by Austrian soldiers watching +for him. He was determined that she should not be sacrificed, +and, having disguised himself a little, walked out into the street in +broad daylight, went up to the Austrian sentry, asked for a light for +his cigar and escaped. He was cordial in his reception of his +visitors, particularly of Clara, Madge and Cohen, whom he had not seen +before.</p> +<p>‘The English,’ he said, after some preliminary conversation, +‘are a curious people. As a nation they are what they call +practical and have a contempt for ideas, but I have known some Englishmen +who have a religious belief in them, a nobler belief than I have found +in any other nation. There are English women, also, who have this +faith, and one or two are amongst my dearest friends.’</p> +<p>‘I never,’ said Marshall, ‘quite comprehend you +on this point. I should say that we know as clearly as most folk +what we want, and we mean to have it.’</p> +<p>‘That may be, but it is not Justice, as Justice which inspires +you. Those of you who have not enough, desire to have more, that +is all.’</p> +<p>‘If we are to succeed, we must preach what the people understand.’</p> +<p>‘Pardon me, that is just where you and I differ. Whenever +any real good is done it is by a crusade; that is to say, the cross +must be raised and appeal be made to something <i>above</i> the people. +No system based on rights will stand. Never will society be permanent +till it is founded on duty. If we consider our rights exclusively, +we extend them over the rights of our neighbours. If the oppressed +classes had the power to obtain their rights to-morrow, and with the +rights came no deeper sense of duty, the new order, for the simple reason +that the oppressed are no better than their oppressors, would be just +as unstable as that which preceded it.’</p> +<p>‘To put it in my own language,’ said Madge, ‘you +believe in God.’</p> +<p>Mazzini leaned forward and looked earnestly at her.</p> +<p>‘My dear young friend, without that belief I should have no +other.’</p> +<p>‘I should like, though,’ said Marshall, ‘to see +the church which would acknowledge you and Miss Madge, or would admit +your God to be theirs.’</p> +<p>‘What is essential,’ replied Madge, ‘in a belief +in God is absolute loyalty to a principle we know to have authority.’</p> +<p>‘It may, perhaps,’ said Mazzini, ‘be more to me, +but you are right, it is a belief in the supremacy and ultimate victory +of the conscience.’</p> +<p>‘The victory seems distant in Italy now,’ said Baruch. +‘I do not mean the millennial victory of which you speak, but +an approximation to it by the overthrow of tyranny there.’</p> +<p>‘You are mistaken; it is far nearer than you imagine.’</p> +<p>‘Do you obtain,’ said Clara, ‘any real help from +people here? Do you not find that they merely talk and express +what they call their sympathy?’</p> +<p>‘I must not say what help I have received; more than words, +though, from many.’</p> +<p>‘You expect, then,’ said Baruch, ‘that the Italians +will answer your appeal?’</p> +<p>‘If I had no faith in the people, I do not see what faith could +survive.’</p> +<p>‘The people are the persons you meet in the street.’</p> +<p>‘A people is not a mere assemblage of uninteresting units, +but it is not a phantom. A spirit lives in each nation which is +superior to any individual in it. It is this which is the true +reality, the nation’s purpose and destiny, it is this for which +the patriot lives and dies.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose,’ said Clara, ‘you have no difficulty +in obtaining volunteers for any dangerous enterprise?’</p> +<p>‘None. You would be amazed if I were to tell you how +many men and women at this very moment would go to meet certain death +if I were to ask them.’</p> +<p>‘Women?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, yes; and women are of the greatest use, but it is rather +difficult to find those who have the necessary qualifications.’</p> +<p>‘I suppose you employ them in order to obtain secret information?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; amongst the Austrians.’</p> +<p>The party broke up. Baruch manœuvred to walk with Clara, +but Marshall wanted to borrow a book from Mazzini, and she stayed behind +for him. Madge was outside in the street, and Baruch could do +nothing but go to her. She seemed unwilling to wait, and Baruch +and she went slowly homewards, thinking the others would overtake them. +The conversation naturally turned upon Mazzini.</p> +<p>‘Although,’ said Madge, ‘I have never seen him +before, I have heard much about him and he makes me sad.’</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘Because he has done something worth doing and will do more.’</p> +<p>‘But why should that make you sad?’</p> +<p>‘I do not think there is anything sadder than to know you are +able to do a little good and would like to do it, and yet you are not +permitted to do it. Mazzini has a world open to him large enough +for the exercise of all his powers.’</p> +<p>‘It is worse to have a desire which is intense but not definite, +to be continually anxious to do something, you know not what, and always +to feel, if any distinct task is offered, your incapability of attempting +it.’</p> +<p>‘A man, if he has a real desire to be of any service, can generally +gratify it to some extent; a woman as a rule cannot, although a woman’s +enthusiasm is deeper than a man’s. You can join Mazzini +to-morrow, I suppose, if you like.’</p> +<p>‘It is a supposition not quite justifiable, and if I were free +to go I could not.’</p> +<p>‘Why?’</p> +<p>‘I am not fitted for such work; I have not sufficient faith. +When I see a flag waving, a doubt always intrudes. Long ago I +was forced to the conclusion that I should have to be content with a +life which did not extend outside itself.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure that many women blunder into the wrong path, not +because they are bad, but simply because - if I may say so - they are +too good.’</p> +<p>‘Maybe you are right. The inability to obtain mere pleasure +has not produced the misery which has been begotten of mistaken or baffled +self-sacrifice. But do you mean to say that you would like to +enlist under Mazzini?’</p> +<p>‘No!’</p> +<p>Baruch thought she referred to her child, and he was silent.</p> +<p>‘You are a philosopher,’ said Madge, after a pause. +‘Have you never discovered anything which will enable us to submit +to be useless?’</p> +<p>‘That is to say, have I discovered a religion? for the core +of religion is the relationship of the individual to the whole, the +faith that the poorest and meanest of us is a person. That is +the real strength of all religions.’</p> +<p>‘Well, go on; what do you believe?’</p> +<p>‘I can only say it like a creed; I have no demonstration, at +least none such as I would venture to put into words. Perhaps +the highest of all truths is incapable of demonstration and can only +be stated. Perhaps, also, the statement, at least to some of us, +is a sufficient demonstration. I believe that inability to imagine +a thing is not a reason for its non-existence. If the infinite +is a conclusion which is forced upon me, the fact that I cannot picture +it does not disprove it. I believe, also, in thought and the soul, +and it is nothing to me that I cannot explain them by attributes belonging +to body. That being so, the difficulties which arise from the +perpetual and unconscious confusion of the qualities of thought and +soul with those of body disappear. Our imagination represents +to itself souls like pebbles, and asks itself what count can be kept +of a million, but number in such a case is inapplicable. I believe +that all thought is a manifestation of the Being, who is One, whom you +may call God if you like, and that, as It never was created, It will +never be destroyed.’</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Madge, interrupting him, ‘although +you began by warning me not to expect that you would prove anything, +you can tell me whether you have any kind of basis for what you say, +or whether it is all a dream.’</p> +<p>‘You will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that mathematics, +which, of course, I had to learn for my own business, have supplied +something for a foundation. They lead to ideas which are inconsistent +with the notion that the imagination is a measure of all things. +Mind, I do not for a moment pretend that I have any theory which explains +the universe. It is something, however, to know that the sky is +as real as the earth.’</p> +<p>They had now reached Great Ormond Street, and parted. Clara +and Marshall were about five minutes behind them. Madge was unusually +cheerful when they sat down to supper.</p> +<p>‘Clara,’ she said, ‘what made you so silent to-night +at Mazzini’s?’ Clara did not reply, but after a pause +of a minute or two, she asked Mrs Caffyn whether it would not be possible +for them all to go into the country on Whitmonday? Whitsuntide +was late; it would be warm, and they could take their food with them +and eat it out of doors.</p> +<p>‘Just the very thing, my dear, if we could get anything cheap +to take us; the baby, of course, must go with us.</p> +<p>‘I should like above everything to go to Great Oakhurst.’</p> +<p>‘What, five of us - twenty miles there and twenty miles back! +Besides, although I love the place, it isn’t exactly what one +would go to see just for a day. No! Letherhead or Mickleham +or Darkin would be ever so much better. They are too far, though, +and, then, that man Baruch must go with us. He’d be company +for Marshall, and he sticks up in Clerkenwell and never goes nowhere. +You remember as Marshall said as he must ask him the next time we had +an outing.’</p> +<p>Clara had not forgotten it.</p> +<p>‘Ah,’ continued Mrs Caffyn, ‘I should just love +to show you Mickleham.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn’s heart yearned after her Surrey land. The +man who is born in a town does not know what it is to be haunted through +life by lovely visions of the landscape which lay about him when he +was young. The village youth leaves the home of his childhood +for the city, but the river doubling on itself, the overhanging alders +and willows, the fringe of level meadow, the chalk hills bounding the +river valley and rising against the sky, with here and there on their +summits solitary clusters of beech, the light and peace of the different +seasons, of morning, afternoon and evening, never forsake him. +To think of them is not a mere luxury; their presence modifies the whole +of his life.</p> +<p>‘I don’t see how it is to be managed,’ she mused; +‘and yet there’s nothing near London as I’d give two +pins to see. There’s Richmond as we went to one Sunday; +it was no better, to my way of thinking, than looking at a picture. +I’d ever so much sooner be a-walking across the turnips by the +footpath from Darkin home.’</p> +<p>‘Couldn’t we, for once in a way, stay somewhere over-night?’</p> +<p>‘It might as well be two,’ said Mrs Marshall; ‘Saturday +and Sunday.’</p> +<p>‘Two,’ said Madge; ‘I vote for two.’</p> +<p>‘Wait a bit, my dears, we’re a precious awkward lot to +fit in - Marshall and his wife me and you and Miss Clara and the baby; +and then there’s Baruch, who’s odd man, so to speak; that’s +three bedrooms. We sha’n’t do it - Otherwise, I was +a-thinking - ’</p> +<p>‘What were you thinking?’ said Marshall.</p> +<p>‘I’ve got it,’ said Mrs Caffyn, joyously. +‘Miss Clara and me will go to Great Oakhurst on the Friday. +We can easy enough stay at my old shop. Marshall and Sarah, Miss +Madge, the baby and Baruch can go to Letherhead on the Saturday morning. +The two women and the baby can have one of the rooms at Skelton’s, +and Marshall and Baruch can have the other. Then, on Sunday morning, +Miss Clara and me we’ll come over for you, and we’ll all +walk through Norbury Park. That’ll be ever so much better +in many ways. Miss Clara and me, we’ll go by the coach. +Six of us, not reckoning the baby, in that heavy ginger-beer cart of +Masterman’s would be too much.’</p> +<p>‘An expensive holiday, rather,’ said Marshall.</p> +<p>‘Leave that to me; that’s my business. I ain’t +quite a beggar, and if we can’t take our pleasure once a year, +it’s a pity. We aren’t like some folk as messes about +up to Hampstead every Sunday, and spends a fortune on shrimps and donkeys. +No; when I go away, it <i>is</i> away, maybe it’s only for a couple +of days, where I can see a blessed ploughed field; no shrimps nor donkeys +for me.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHARTER XXIX</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>So it was settled, and on the Friday Clara and Mrs Caffyn journeyed +to Great Oakhurst. They were both tired, and went to bed very +early, in order that they might enjoy the next day. Clara, always +a light sleeper, woke between three and four, rose and went to the little +casement window which had been open all night. Below her, on the +left, the church was just discernible, and on the right, the broad chalk +uplands leaned to the south, and were waving with green barley and wheat. +Underneath her lay the cottage garden, with its row of beehives in the +north-east corner, sheltered from the cold winds by the thick hedge. +It had evidently been raining a little, for the drops hung on the currant +bushes, but the clouds had been driven by the south-westerly wind into +the eastern sky, where they lay in a long, low, grey band. Not +a sound was to be heard, save every now and then the crow of a cock +or the short cry of a just-awakened thrush. High up on the zenith, +the approach of the sun to the horizon was proclaimed by the most delicate +tints of rose-colour, but the cloud-bank above him was dark and untouched, +although the blue which was over it, was every moment becoming paler. +Clara watched; she was moved even to tears by the beauty of the scene, +but she was stirred by something more than beauty, just as he who was +in the Spirit and beheld a throne and One sitting thereon, saw something +more than loveliness, although He was radiant with the colour of jasper +and there was a rainbow round about Him like an emerald to look upon. +In a few moments the highest top of the cloud-rampart was kindled, and +the whole wavy outline became a fringe of flame. In a few moments +more the fire just at one point became blinding, and in another second +the sun emerged, the first arrowy shaft passed into her chamber, the +first shadow was cast, and it was day. She put her hands to her +face; the tears fell faster, but she wiped them away and her great purpose +was fixed. She crept back into bed, her agitation ceased, a strange +and almost supernatural peace overshadowed her and she fell asleep not +to wake till the sound of the scythe had ceased in the meadow just beyond +the rick-yard that came up to one side of the cottage, and the mowers +were at their breakfast.</p> +<p>Neither Mrs Caffyn nor Clara thought of seeing the Letherhead party +on Saturday. They could not arrive before the afternoon, and it +was considered hardly worth while to walk from Great Oakhurst to Letherhead +merely for the sake of an hour or two. In the morning Mrs Caffyn +was so busy with her old friends that she rather tired herself, and +in the evening Clara went for a stroll. She did not know the country, +but she wandered on until she came to a lane which led down to the river. +At the bottom of the lane she found herself at a narrow, steep, stone +bridge. She had not been there more than three or four minutes +before she descried two persons coming down the lane from Letherhead. +When they were about a couple of hundred yards from her they turned +into the meadow over the stile, and struck the river-bank some distance +below the point where she was. It was impossible to mistake them; +they were Madge and Baruch. They sauntered leisurely; presently +Baruch knelt down over the water, apparently to gather something which +he gave to Madge. They then crossed another stile and were lost +behind the tall hedge which stopped further view of the footpath in +that direction.</p> +<p>‘The message then was authentic,’ she said to herself. +‘I thought I could not have misunderstood it.’</p> +<p>On Sunday morning Clara wished to stay at home. She pleaded +that she preferred rest, but Mrs Caffyn vowed there should be no Norbury +Park if Clara did not go, and the kind creature managed to persuade +a pig-dealer to drive them over to Letherhead for a small sum, notwithstanding +it was Sunday. The whole party then set out; the baby was drawn +in a borrowed carriage which also took the provisions, and they were +fairly out of the town before the Letherhead bells had ceased ringing +for church. It was one of the sweetest of Sundays, sunny, but +masses of white clouds now and then broke the heat. The park was +reached early in the forenoon, and it was agreed that dinner should +be served under one of the huge beech trees at the lower end, as the +hill was a little too steep for the baby-carriage in the hot sun.</p> +<p>‘This is very beautiful,’ said Marshall, when dinner +was over, ‘but it is not what we came to see. We ought to +move upwards to the Druid’s grove.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, you be off, the whole lot of you,’ said Mrs Caffyn. +‘I know every tree there, and I ain’t going there this afternoon. +Somebody must stay here to look after the baby; you can’t wheel +her, you’ll have to carry her, and you won’t enjoy yourselves +much more for moiling along with her up that hill.’</p> +<p>‘I will stay with you,’ said Clara.</p> +<p>Everybody protested, but Clara was firm. She was tired, and +the sun had given her a headache. Madge pleaded that it was she +who ought to remain behind, but at last gave way for her sister looked +really fatigued.</p> +<p>‘There’s a dear child,’ said Clara, when Madge +consented to go. ‘I shall lie on the grass and perhaps go +to sleep.’</p> +<p>‘It is a pity,’ said Baruch to Madge as they went away, +‘that we are separated; we must come again.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I am sorry, but perhaps it is better she should be where +she is; she is not particularly strong, and is obliged to be very careful.’</p> +<p>In due time they all came to the famous yews, and sat down on one +of the seats overlooking that wonderful gate in the chalk downs through +which the Mole passes northwards.</p> +<p>‘We must go,’ said Marshall, ‘a little bit further +and see the oak.’</p> +<p>‘Not another step,’ said his wife. ‘You can +go it you like.’</p> +<p>‘Content; nothing could be pleasanter than to sit here,’ +and he pulled out his pipe; ‘but really, Miss Madge, to leave +Norbury without paying a visit to the oak is a pity.’</p> +<p>He did not offer, however, to accompany her.</p> +<p>‘It is the most extraordinary tree in these parts,’ said +Baruch; ‘of incalculable age and with branches spreading into +a tent big enough to cover a regiment. Marshall is quite right.’</p> +<p>‘Where is it?’</p> +<p>‘Not above a couple of hundred yards further; just round the +corner.’</p> +<p>Madge rose and looked.</p> +<p>‘No; it is not visible here; it stands a little way back. +If you come a little further you will catch a glimpse of it.’</p> +<p>She followed him and presently the oak came in view. They climbed +up the bank and went nearer to it. The whole vale was underneath +them and part of the weald with the Sussex downs blue in the distance. +Baruch was not much given to raptures over scenery, but the indifference +of Nature to the world’s turmoil always appealed to him.</p> +<p>‘You are not now discontented because you cannot serve under +Mazzini?’</p> +<p>‘Not now.’</p> +<p>There was nothing in her reply on the face of it of any particular +consequence to Baruch. She might simply have intended that the +beauty of the fair landscape extinguished her restlessness, or that +she saw her own unfitness, but neither of these interpretations presented +itself to him.</p> +<p>‘I have sometimes thought,’ continued Baruch, slowly, +‘that the love of any two persons in this world may fulfil an +eternal purpose which is as necessary to the Universe as a great revolution.’</p> +<p>Madge’s eyes moved round from the hills and they met Baruch’s. +No syllable was uttered, but swiftest messages passed, question and +answer. There was no hesitation on his part now, no doubt, the +woman and the moment had come. The last question was put, the +final answer was given; he took her hand in his and came closer to her.</p> +<p>‘Stop!’ she whispered, ‘do you know my history?’</p> +<p>He did not reply, but fell upon her neck. This was the goal +to which both had been journeying all these years, although with much +weary mistaking of roads; this was what from the beginning was designed +for both! Happy Madge! happy Baruch! There are some so closely +akin that the meaning of each may be said to lie in the other, who do +not approach till it is too late. They travel towards one another, +but are waylaid and detained, and just as they are within greeting, +one of them drops and dies.</p> +<p>They left the tree and went back to the Marshalls, and then down +the hill to Mrs Caffyn and Clara. Clara was much better for her +rest, and early in the evening the whole party returned to Letherhead, +Clara and Mrs Caffyn going on to Great Oakhurst. Madge kept close +to her sister till they separated, and the two men walked together. +On Whitmonday morning the Letherhead people came over to Great Oakhurst. +They had to go back to London in the afternoon, but Mrs Caffyn and Clara +were to stay till Tuesday, as they stood a better chance of securing +places by the coach on that day. Mrs Caffyn had as much to show +them as if the village had been the Tower of London. The wonder +of wonders, however, was a big house, where she was well known, and +its hot-houses. Madge wanted to speak to Clara, but it was difficult +to find a private opportunity. When they were in the garden, however, +she managed to take Clara unobserved down one of the twisted paths, +under pretence of admiring an ancient mulberry tree.</p> +<p>‘Clara,’ she said, ‘I want a word with you. +Baruch Cohen loves me.’</p> +<p>‘Do you love him?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Without a shadow of a doubt?’</p> +<p>‘Without a shadow of a doubt.’</p> +<p>Clara put her arm round her sister, kissed her tenderly and said, +-</p> +<p>‘Then I am perfectly happy.’</p> +<p>‘Did you suspect it?’</p> +<p>‘I knew it.’</p> +<p>Mrs Caffyn called them; it was time to be moving, and soon afterwards +those who had to go to London that afternoon left for Letherhead. +Clara stood at the gate for a long time watching them along the straight, +white road. They came to the top of the hill; she could just discern +them against the sky; they passed over the ridge and she went indoors. +In the evening a friend called to see Mrs Caffyn, and Clara went to +the stone bridge which she had visited on Saturday. The water +on the upper side of the bridge was dammed up and fell over the little +sluice gates under the arches into a clear and deep basin about forty +or fifty feet in diameter. The river, for some reason of its own, +had bitten into the western bank, and had scooped out a great piece +of it into an island. The main current went round the island with +a shallow, swift ripple, instead of going through the pool, as it might +have done, for there was a clear channel for it. The centre and +the region under the island were deep and still, but at the farther +end, where the river in passing called to the pool, it broke into waves +as it answered the appeal, and added its own contribution to the stream, +which went away down to the mill and onwards to the big Thames. +On the island were aspens and alders. The floods had loosened +the roots of the largest tree, and it hung over heavily in the direction +in which it had yielded to the rush of the torrent, but it still held +its grip, and the sap had not forsaken a single branch. Every +one was as dense with foliage as if there had been no struggle for life, +and the leaves sang their sweet song, just perceptible for a moment +every now and then in the variations of the louder music below them. +It is curious that the sound of a weir is never uniform, but is perpetually +changing in the ear even of a person who stands close by it. One +of the arches of the bridge was dry, and Clara went down into it, stood +at the edge and watched that wonderful sight - the plunge of a smooth, +pure stream into the great cup which it has hollowed out for itself. +Down it went, with a dancing, foamy fringe playing round it just where +it met the surface; a dozen yards away it rose again, bubbling and exultant.</p> +<p>She came up from the arch and went home as the sun was setting. +She found Mrs Caffyn alone.</p> +<p>‘I have news to tell you,’ she said. ‘Baruch +Cohen is in love with my sister, and she is in love with him.’</p> +<p>‘The Lord, Miss Clara! I thought sometimes that perhaps +it might be you; but there, it’s better, maybe, as it is, for +- ’</p> +<p>‘For what?’</p> +<p>‘Why, my dear, because somebody’s sure to turn up who’ll +make you happy, but there aren’t many men like Baruch. You +see what I mean, don’t you? He’s always a-reading +books, and, therefore, he don’t think so much of what some people +would make a fuss about. Not as anything of that kind would ever +stop me, if I were a man and saw such a woman as Miss Madge. He’s +really as good a creature as ever was born, and with that child she +might have found it hard to get along, and now it will be cared for, +and so will she be to the end of their lives.’</p> +<p>The evening after their return to Great Ormond Street, Mazzini was +surprised by a visit from Clara alone.</p> +<p>‘When I last saw you,’ she said, ‘you told us that +you had been helped by women. I offer myself.’</p> +<p>‘But, my dear madam, you hardly know what the qualifications +are. To begin with, there must be a knowledge of three foreign +languages, French, German and Italian, and the capacity and will to +endure great privation, suffering and, perhaps, death.’</p> +<p>‘I was educated abroad, I can speak German and French. +I do not know much Italian, but when I reach Italy I will soon learn.’</p> +<p>‘Pardon me for asking you what may appear a rude question. +Is it a personal disappointment which sends you to me, or love for the +cause? It is not uncommon to find that young women, when earthly +love is impossible, attempt to satisfy their cravings with a love for +that which is impersonal.’</p> +<p>‘Does it make any difference, so far as their constancy is +concerned?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot say that it does. The devotion of many of the +martyrs of the Catholic church was repulsion from the world as much +as attraction to heaven. You must understand that I am not prompted +by curiosity. If you are to be my friend, it is necessary that +I should know you thoroughly.’</p> +<p>‘My motive is perfectly pure.’</p> +<p>They had some further talk and parted. After a few more interviews, +Clara and another English lady started for Italy. Madge had letters +from her sister at intervals for eighteen months, the last being from +Venice. Then they ceased, and shortly afterwards Mazzini told +Baruch that his sister-in-law was dead.</p> +<p>All efforts to obtain more information from Mazzini were in vain, +but one day when her name was mentioned, he said to Madge, -</p> +<p>‘The theologians represent the Crucifixion as the most sublime +fact in the world’s history. It was sublime, but let us +reverence also the Eternal Christ who is for ever being crucified for +our salvation.’</p> +<p>‘Father,’ said a younger Clara to Baruch some ten years +later as she sat on his knee, ‘I had an Aunt Clara once, hadn’t +I?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, my child.’</p> +<p>‘Didn’t she go to Italy and die there?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Why did she go?’</p> +<p>‘Because she wanted to free the poor people of Italy who were +slaves.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CLARA HOPGOOD ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named chpg10h.htm or chpg10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, chpg11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, chpg10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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